


Post-Flight Debrief

by pilotisms



Series: Poe/Punchy [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Feelings Realization, Mutual Pining, Poe Dameron being a Good Dude, Pre-Canon, Pre-TFA, Reader being Emotionally Constipated, Resistance Starfighter Corp lore, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Two Rebel Top Gun Pilots Flying With No Where to Be, and canon typical banter, lots of comedy, lots of fun stuff, some fraternization, thanks lorde
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2020-08-13 19:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 21,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20179669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: After the events of "Pre-Flight Check", Poe & Punchy's relationship starts to change.A collection of light-plot driven drabbles.Mostly prompts from my blog.





	1. Bar Brawl!

The base’s cantina is where, at any give point on a Friday night, you can find nearly all of the Resistance’s Starfighter Corp. Dagger, Stiletto, Cobalt and _especially _Black Squadron all operated under the age-old guise of: work hard, party harder.

Karé and Jessika insist you deserve a round or two on them after the bantha-shit you’d been dragged through all week; you’d been off your game ever since returning back from the Voss mission. Blame a certain Black Leader for that. You feel like you can’t go anywhere without –

“Look who it is!”  


You try to avoid Poe’s gaze as you rendezvous with the other half of Black Squadron.

Snap Wexley greets Karé is a smile and a kiss. That riles a chorus of chirps and jeers from the squadron. You greet Oddy, L’ulo and Snap with quick knuckle bumps and high-fives (each personalized, of course), before offering Poe a curt nod from around Jessika. 

He swigs his beer. 

_ Awkward. _

“Who are we toasting tonight?” Oddy chirps, eyes bright as he moves to toss a credit towards the bartender. 

Jessika’s hand come down on your shoulders and she shakes you in good fun. “We’re getting Punchy messed up tonight.”

“No, c’mon –” you mumble, raising your hands, “I’ve had a shit week enough –”  


“No,” it’s Karé this time, “No backing out, you agreed to get wild with us – girls night, remember?”  


“Speaking of…” Snap leans, elbowing Poe in the ribs, “Look who just got here.”  


You watch the exchange, eyes narrowing as you spot Poe’s brows dart upwards. The back door of the cantina swings open and through the dimly lit, crowded room, you see _her_.

Suralinda Javos is _new. _

From what you were able to gather from Snap and L’ulo, she’s retired New Republic Navy – she worked as a journalist for a bit and after a visit gone awry, Poe recruited her for the Resistance. There’s, _apparently, _a mixed history there. And _that _is cause enough for you to_dislike _her. 

God, you wish you could wipe that look off’s Poe face. She’s not even that great. Okay, fine, she’s beautiful. And tall. And lean and dangerous and cunning and…

You feel like a T-40 X-Wing, and she’s latest model when she walks in the room.

Not to mention the clash of personalities. 

She was promoted to Crimson Squadron’s flight commander in the matter of a week, no doubt for word down the chain.

You are, by no means, by the book – but the Squamatan is _chaos _in the sky. You nearly throttled your helmet through your windshield after drills one day when you watched Poe leap from his cockpit, cheering and commending her and _loving _how _reckless _she was. 

So, yeah, there’s maybe a little jealousy there. Reckless was _your _thing. And when you were reckless, Poe just… _got all huffy _and did his usual ‘kid’ _routine. _

“I could go for that round about now,” you deadpan, ignoring the way every pilot in the bar seems to gravitate to the teal-skinned Squamatan, “Anyone else?”  


A gruff grunt. It’s Jessika. “Yep.”

“Count me in.”  


Karé and Jessika had, really, been your saving grace post-Voss; they were kind enough to listen to you rant and rave – and eventually help you navigate yourself to the point of, yeah, you didn’t _hate _Poe. The self-exploration stopped there, though. Whatever this _was_ happened to be a bit more complicated than not-hate. You couldn’t say you you were excited to admit that you didn’t hatePoe at all, quite the opposite, because having feelings for your flight-Commander is so not _good._

So, you shut up and pull your big-girl flight suit up, because you were content on just being_good _with Poe. 

No arguments, no side-hand comments, no butting-of-heads. You’d even _smiled _at him after drills; it was like the sweetest sucker punch in the world.

Until this week.

It was _too good. _And then Suralinda traipsed into it all.

Long story short, Jessika and Karé can’t stand her either. Which, honestly, is so not your vibe. You were very anti pitting-girls-against-girls because of shared interest in a man, but you’ve always been bullheaded and Jessika and Karé are good friends. 

And, right now, beside the very gorgeous Suralinda, you’re thankful for good friends. 

“Hey, you.”  


You scoff at Poe’s greeting for the Crimson Leader. Suralinda offers a big smile, hand moving for his arm. “Hey!”

Jessika and Karé shoulder you, muscling you down the line and far from the interaction happening – all before leaning over the bar and gesturing for a round of shots. And _that _is pretty much how the night goes. Little by little, the Squadron joins you and the girls.

Poe and Suralinda continue their _cosmic _level flirting, and you settle on joking with the rest of Black Squadron. 

You’re trying to stack shot glasses when a hand on your shoulder interrupts. 

You turn, buzz spinning the room in the best way. 

And there’s Gret Franz, Dagger Squadron’s offensive left-wing – tall, dark, handsome. His smile is lopsided and dangerous and you’re _hooked; _everyone knows Gret is a flirt, but suddenly you’re in the spotlight and you can’t get enough of it.

And Poe? Poe’s all set, thanks. 

“What’s up with _that?” _Suralinda asks, brows quirked as she juts her chin to motion in your direction.  


Poe’s entire face falls.

He _hates _how sweet your smile is then. It reminds him of the one you’d spared him on the space depot, all toothy and bright. Dimples dig into your cheeks and Poe watches as Gret Franz makes you _laugh. _Actually _laugh. _And makes half his squadron laugh, too. 

“You _like _her,” Sura chirps, “Don’t you?”  


Poe’s known Suralinda since his first year in the academy – and though L’ulo and Oddy like to tease, their friendship is only platonic; any romance was blasted out the airlock Poe’s second year when Suralinda shut him down hard and fast. 

_Poe, it’s not you, really, _she’d said one night, _seriously, I don’t swing that way. _

Suralinda’s just trying to get an in to make moves on Jessika. All those risky flight maneuvers, all the lunches in the mess at Black Squadron’s table… and still, Jessika Pava is a little too busy being a good friend to even notice the advances. 

Nothing ever works smoothly with Resistance Starfighters and romance. It’s just not how the gears roll. 

“No,” he says it too fast. Sura rolls her eyes, “She’s… we’re just _squad-mates_.”  


“Is _that _why you don’t like her?”  


_Yeah, duh, fraternization isn’t just a Navy rule. _Poe says nothing, only moves from his post at the bar to shoulder his way down the line. 

Something spikes a hot anger in his gut when Gret’s hands move to your lower back, leaning over you to press his chest to your back. The proximity stirs a jealousy in him that he _tries _to push away, but… _he’s tipsy. _And —

And Gret is a trash flight-leader.

Imagine your surprise when you’re suddenly not only the subject of Gret’s attention, but Poe’s – the curly haired commander arrives at your other side, nudging you and offering a slow smile. Gret notes the man by your side and sudden center of your attention. 

Poe and Gret’s gazes connect.

At once, _both _of them blurt out:

“Let me buy you a drink.”  


You have to do a double take. The Squadron behind you falls into a heavy silence at the sudden rivalry being created – you turn to look at them both, shifting from foot to foot then, eyes darting between the flight-leaders. You blink, mouth falling open as you try to find the right words to say. 

The shots have your thoughts working slow, sticky like honey.

“Really –”  


“No,” Poe laughs, “I insist, man –”  


“I thought you were busy –” Gret chirps, “With Sura.”  


“Sura and I –” Poe says with a tight smile, blinking up at the taller pilot, “… are just friends. So, why don’t you run along back to Dagger Squadron’s little corner and let me buy _my _Lieutenant a drink?”  


The bar now, has their attention trained on the growing tension between the two men, voices stifled and eyes drawn. The bar seems to back up two paces, making room with the egos clashing. 

“Oh,” it’s a sharp laugh, “Big talk coming from you.”  


“From _me?_ Yeah?”  


“Last I checked,” Gret jabs, “You got laid out by _your _Lieutenant. Twice.”  


Poe’s jaw clenches. You can see the anger there. He wets his lips, swallowing before turning his head to shoot Snap a look; for a second, you think maybe Poe’s going to back off. And then, brown eyes land on you.

“She’s got a mean hook.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Poe pokes the bear. 

“Too bad she’s not into academy drop-outs, Gret.”  


Then, you watch Gret, aforementioned New Republic Navy Academy dropout, land a hit on Poe. You’re, honestly, blown by it – mostly because starting fights was more _your _thing than it was Poe’s thing. Secondly, because the whole _bar _proceeds to erupt into a brawl, seemingly over the rivalry created in an instant over _buying you a drink. _Fittingly enough, though, when your brain and body decide to get it together through the haze of enough alcohol to knock a Tauntaun out, you’re the one that ends the fight.

“_Enough!”_  


The shriek stills the bar as you pull Poe and Gret from each other. Black Squadron, in various ends of the cantina, cease their punching. The whole corp follows suite. 

You swallow, hair wild as you try and catch your breath. Standing and squaring your shoulders, you speak slowly.

Your speech is slurred, face hot. You jam your finger into Poe’s chest, ignoring the split lip. You lean, staggering a bit.

“I… will _buy myself _a drink.”

And like that, it’s settled.

You buy yourself a drink. And Poe goes home with his ego (and his jaw) bruised.


	2. Honey-bear!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested: “I’m so much drunk when I’m prettier” + tipsy poe please!!

Everyone knows it’s going to be a good night when Poe Dameron starts drinking.

(Namely because the Commander needs a two day rebound period after a night at the cantina’s bar, as per precedent. Everyone knows that when Poe’s got rosy cheeks from one too many Kowakian rums they’re in the clear.

No early drills when Dameron is drinking.)

Everyone also knows Poe Dameron is a light-weight. He’s no better than you – seriously, the second he starts in on the mixers, he’s a goner and it’s _adorable. _You absolutely _hate _how his laugh gets louder and his smile bigger. Especially when he’s shoulder to shoulder with you at the bar, eyes glimmering with something foreign and warm. 

“Let me buy you a drink,” he says, “To make up for last week.”  


You laugh, tossing your head back. “Trying to save your reputation?”

“And be nice,” Poe chirps, “And make it up to you.”  


“Then go ahead, buy us _both _drinks, Poe.”  


And he does. And the entire time, he leans on the bar and looks at you like you’re made of cosmic dust – glowing and glittering like dust particles in sunlight. Pretty. And, uh… dusty. Okay, maybe that doesn’t really make sense, but Poe still looks at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen since… _ever. _

L’ulo and Snap are smothering laughs at the far end of the bar as Poe sways on his feet. You can’t help but think throwing their Commander to the wolves is rather endearing. 

You turn on the bar-stool, sipping the sweet drink Poe’d gestured for – his eyes seem to widen an inch at the sudden attention. Almost like he hadn’t expected it. It punches you in the chest, feelings surging up. Maker, you could just… _kiss him. _

You try to gup down the engine-fuel strength drink in your hands without pulling a grimace. Poe’s going to hurt in the morning. At this rate, you will too.

Poe’s honey brown eyes are still locked on you though, pupils dilating as the dart to your mouth. The cherry-sweet syrup sticks to your lips. He clears his throat, looks down and then slurps half his drink down. 

“You’re drunk.”  


When Poe looks up, you’re glowing still – and _smiling. _

“I’m,” he ducks his head, “Ha. I’m… _listen, _I haven’t let loose…”  


“In a week?” you sip, eyes watching him over the rim, “I saw.”  


“Gret’s a trash pilot anyways.”  


“Maybe I _like _trash pilots.”  


“Yea, and how about _jerks_?”  


“I dunno,” you chirp, “You can be a pretty big jerk sometimes –”

It goes over his head; you _watch _it soar over his curls, his mouth still pulled into a sour frown. He jams his straw into the pink slushy. He looks younger like this, under the purple lights of the cantina’s bar.

Poe itches the five o’clock shadow along his jaw, shrugging softly. “He’s not even good looking, though.”

“No?”  


“No, and I mean – I’m much drunk when I’m prettier.”  


A pause. Your face screws up. Poe’s follows. 

“I meant –”  


“I know what you meant,” you snort, “And I’m going to go ahead and say that’s _enough _for you, Commander.”  


“Ooh, pulling rank,” he chirps as you toss back the rest of your drink and his own follows. Poe lets you sneak it from his hands, drumming his knuckles on the bar as you toy with his straw, “Yes, ma’am.”  


You swat at his shoulder. “Eugh, don’t call me ma’am.”

He tries not to think too much about how you’re sucking on the same straw he’d been moments ago. He’s not really sure why he’s kinda proud of the fact you’re drinking his drink. After all, Poe had been cut off. By _his Lieutenant. _Who he’s trying to woo. And… I mean, he’s not doing a very good job.

“Kid, ma’am… pick one, I’m getting low on nicknames.”  


You hop from the barstool then, patting Poe’s chest.

He sways at the proximity. _Not good. _

“Punchy works just fine, Dameron.”  


He blinks.

_ I dunno, though. Honey works better. Baby, maybe. Sweetheart. Something dumb and gooey and lovey… What did his dad call his mum again? Was it in Yavinese…? I can’t remember.  _

Another blink.

_“Poe, _what the _hell _are you talking about?” Snap asks, shouldering his commander through the door to his quarters. Poe stumbles. Snap catches him.  


Poe is mumbling, going on and on. “Nicknames.”

Everyone knows it’s going to be a good night when Poe Dameron starts drinking. Especially when he blacks out in the middle of the bar after lovingly calling you _honey-bear _in front of the entirety of Cobalt Squadron. 


	3. I'm Okay!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: IM NOT DRUNK, UR DRUNK i need drunk punchy with a soft sweet poe taking care of her cus he knows she won’t remember it omg

“I’m okay.”

Poe’s got you, hand around your waist as you push a hand through your hair and sniffle. You’ve just, rather gracefully if Poe must say, yacked up the contents of the night’s merriment in the junkbin by the door. 

_ You’re so not okay. _

“Ooh,” Poe had grimaced, face softening, “Out she goes.”  


Poe can see it on your face when you stand back up to full height. You’ve checked out. 

Almost immediately, the night was called – but, Jessika had Oddy to watch, and Karé had Snap. Poe wasn’t about to make Suralinda take care of you (the animosity there has been noted). So, stomaching the tension and unspoken feelings smothering you both, Poe decided to just… _deal with it. _And deal with you, absolutely tossed and clinging to his jacket as you staggered down the hall towards your quarters.   


“Where’s Jess? Is she okay?”  


It’s slurred. Poe rubs your shoulders. The anxiety there dissipates.

“Jess is with Oddy, kid, she’s alright.”  


“Is she drunk?”  


“No,” Poe says sweetly, “She’s playing sober-sally.”  


“Oh,” a moment’s pause, no anger bubbling at the slip of the nickname, “Good.”   


“So am I.”  


You stick your tongue out. Poe laughs.  


“_You’re _drunk.”  


“No, I’m not –”  


“No?”

“I’m tossed.”  


Poe laughs softly at that, arriving at your door and gesturing to the keypad there. “Go ahead, Punchy, open it up.”

A grumble. “Don’t look.”

Poe fights a smile. Maker, you’re adorable. “Don’t look?”

“Yea,” you slur, “My room, not yours.”  


Poe looks. He has to laugh when it’s as simple as your call-sign – 3 – hammered into the pad until the door opens. It’s fitting. With your reputation, Poe doubted anyone wanted to break in anyways. They’d got decked if they did.

All laughter disappears when, once through the threshold of your room, you’re diving face first into the refresher. Poe grimaces and chases after, yelping. You make it just in time – again, it’s graceful, but he rushes to your side, moving to sweep calloused fingers through your hair and tug the strands back. 

After a minute or two, you give one last wretch, groan, and sit up. Knocking your knees against the polished metal of the toilet, you lean into Poe’s hand. The Commander gives a gentle rub of your scalp, and then exhales, dropping his hands on his knees.

“Thank you,” you mumble.  


“Anytime,” Poe says, meaning it.  


You sit there for a second, bleary eyes just _watching him. _You’re working something out, thinking about something. He’s not sure what, but he can’t help the crinkle of his eyes when you close your own and say:

“I’m never drinking again.”

Poe laughs. You, eyes closed and swaying on the floor from the spins, beam at the sound. 

“Want me to hold you to that?”  


_ Holding you sounds nice. _

Poe’s brows shoot up. You don’t flinch. You really _are _gone – blacked out. Just like he was when… you’re both bad with filters, he realizes. Poe wonders, absentmindedly, if things would be different if a war wasn’t happening. If things wouldn’t be so hard if you both didn’t have titles to respect, a squad to operate within. If maybe, the tension would just _boil over._

You wretch again, and Poe’s hands move to your hair once more.

_ Who knows. _

"I’m okay.”

You’re not, but Poe doesn’t intend on leaving for the night until you are.


	4. Slow Dance!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was talking about Poe singng. Anon requested: poe softly singing into punchy’s ears as they slow dance -

You’re laughing, nose brushing his cheek – the stubble there tickles, but his skin is warm. It’s grounding; you try to memorize the way his hands curl around your waist and hold you close to his chest, try to memorize the soft beat of his heart under his jacket. 

Poe Dameron skirts a lazy kiss along your jaw as you sway, your own eyes heavy with a starry sort of wonderment at the man in your arms. His kisses feel like sunshine on your cheeks. You can’t help but forget the cantina around you; nothing matters because you’re locked in Poe’s orbit, your heart rocketing around his own in a dangerous entanglement of security and hope and happiness and –

He sings, then, words softly whispered into the shell of your ear as you press your smile into his shoulder, into the fabric of his jacket. The words are familiar. You think you know the song.

But, the more you think about it, the farther the sound gets. Poe’s still talking, though, and he blinks down at you through thick lashes. You watch his lips form words: 

_ You alright, honey-bear? _

But there’s no sound. Just the distant, familiar drone… the lyrics melt away, an the man in your arms follows suit. 

And suddenly, you’re upright in your bunk, skin like ice and alarm _blaring. _


	5. Croon!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon cried: poe dameron SINGS and it annoys punchy to no end. like— physically. her stomach gets all fluttery and her chest feels all tight whenever she hears him sing? what is this sorcery? at one point she’s just gotta kiss him so that he stops. and it’s definitely just because she’s annoyed with him. yep. definitely.

The first time you ever hear it, you stop completely. You spend nearly an hour, frozen in the doorway of the hangar, listening to him croon softly along to some tune only he knows. It gets late, and under the stars of the open hangar bay doors, you listen to Poe Dameron sing. 

It’s this feeling of being home that winds in your gut – a tie between a lonely sort nostalgia and adoration. You ache for something you don’t have. 

He doesn’t do it often… singing, you mean – only when he thinks he’s really alone. The same tune sits in his heart, whispered under his breath as he marches between meetings in the command center, sometimes. If you’re quiet as you pass by the other locker room, you can hear him humming in the showers after drills, too. 

You have it bad for Poe Dameron.

Because the gentle melody coming from his mouth in the midst of midnight repairs is suddenly stuck in _your head _– and the night Poe hears you singing that same song softly to yourself is the night he sits and listens, smile soft under the stars of the open hangar bay doors. 


	6. Fight Club!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for: Can we get some “tending to each others wounds with romantic tension” for punchy/poe?

“You’re an _idiot, _Poe.”  


His knee is bouncing, fingers interlocked as he tries his best to sit through the less-than-gentle hand you have when cleaning the deep gash across the bridge of his nose. Poe Dameron’s lashes kiss his cheek, nostrils flaring lightly as he exhales.

He’s irritated. The Resistance’s Golden Boy, the perfect poster-boy, is _irritated._

You try to remember this. It’s rare. He’s _never _not a ball of sunshine. This icy attitude of his is more your speed than his. You try to hide your amusement.

“Yeah, well,” he heaves, “Gret Franz is a shit flight leader.”  


You raise your finger as you lean around him, slipping from your perch of a bar-stool while he stays, leaned back against the island of his kitchenette with his arms cross. You pad across the floor, chucking the gauze into his trash before returning with some antibacterial and a frozen MRE you’d dug out of his freezer.

You stand in-front of him while you speak, toe to toe.

“You’ve said that before.”  


“Have I?”  


“Yeah,” you chirp, using your thumb and smearing a glob across his gash, “The _first _time you ever punched him. Remember? He was trying to –”  


“Buy you a drink, _I know,” _he grumbles, tapping his foot as he winces. His lip curls a bit, “He’s just… He’s –”  


“An ass. And a show-off,” you supply, blinking up at him with a light smile. Poe pulls his eyes open when you pat his cheek, ignoring the slow-burn of adoration that makes a home there, “And he’s going to get you grounded if you keep throwing punches –”  


You step away, moving to wash your hands, and Poe pushes off the counter. You continue. 

“– And when _you _get grounded, _I _get grounded. And Snap, and Jessika, and Oddy – all of us. So, in our best interest, maybe leave the fighting to the rest of us, okay?”  


“I’m a _Commander _–”

“Congrats,” you laugh, “But you’re not running the show. Leia is. _You _need to be careful. Fighting as a Commander puts your reputation at risk. Just… let me do the punching, okay? After all, you _lost _this row, flyboy.”

You gesture to his whole busted nose and black eye. Poe plants his hands on his hips. He serves you a look. 

Maybe you have a point.

He sighs and drops his head. 

“… Was it that bad?”  


“I dunno,” you chirp, knowing full-well that _yes, it was bad_, “I’ll have Gustav pull up the tapes from the Cantina so you can watch and decide for yourself.”  


“Gee, thanks, Punchy.”  


“No problem, Commander.”


	7. Without You!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: Right right hear me out Poe cleaning up punchy after a fight and being the softest™️

You go down on the Western banks of Danzar, plummeting out of the sky in the middle of a gruesome dogfight. 

(You’d darted to protect Poe’s blind-spot, rolling into a dive that left your right engine exposed.)

Black Squadron is ambushed by two fleets of TIE’s that come screaming across the horizon line as your T-68 X-Wing impacts the beach in a blur of smoke and sand. The last thing Poe Dameron hears as he punches in the coordinates for a jump is your distress beacon – he’s in a wild panic, cursing into his comms and _promising he’ll be back. He’ll come back for you._

For three days, Black Squadron does nothing but pace on the tarmac – for three days, Poe begs for clearance to man a mission into the First Order controlled sector of the Outer Rim. He’s heard it all by now: it’s too dangerous, it’s infested with TIE’s, it’s being watched. 

Frankly, he doesn’t give a shit.

“General,” he says, voice splitting, “Let me go. At this point, it’s either with or _without _your blessing – I will not leave her down there to die.”  


Leia’s shoulders had sagged then, command center locked in a stifling silence by the desperate Commander. She sighs, wise eyes rising to meet his own before she waves her hand once.

It’s all he needs. 

Black Squadron recovers your wreckage on the third day, finds you nursing a broken arm and stoking a small fire on the beach. You’re beaten up and bruised and exhausted and starving and as Jessika helps you into the back of the unmarked transport freighter, Poe sags in relief.

“I promised, Punchy. I promised you I’d come back for you,” he says over his headset as you settle against the side wall and laugh – it’s a breathless little sound. You watch him flick on the primer for the hyper-drive, hands shaking, “Let’s get you outta here.”  


You’re settled on the edge of the medical bay’s bed when he’s finally let in for a visit. You’re showered, with a fresh cast on your arm and a nice set of stitches along your hairline. Your bruises are yellowed there, telling the tale of impact. Your feet swing, eyes tired when he pushes through the curtain.

“Hey.”  


“Hi.”  


His weight shifts the bed. You blink down at your hands. 

(They’re littered with scrapes from trying to protect your face from the shattering of your cockpit window upon impact. It hadn’t really helped.)

Between you, the pause is stifling. Poe speaks at the same moment you do.

“I’m glad you’re –”

“I’m really bad at _thank you’s _–”  


He laughs. You mimic the gesture, exhaustion making it harder than usual to rile the sound up. Poe watches you for a second, lashes kissing his cheeks as he blinks, before speaking softly.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”  


“You, uh… You have a big blind spot, y’know.”  


His eyes roam your face. He spies the quirk of your lips. And he laughs.

“I do,” he chirps, “Don’t I?”  


“Dunno what you’d do without me, Dameron.”  


_ He doesn’t either. _


	8. Pretty and Beautiful!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: could you write about the first time Poe thought Punchy was beautiful?

You had strode off a New Republic Naval transport alongside fifteen other cadets in a uniform all too familiar to Poe Dameron one afternoon – in that moment, you were nothing but a new face in a fresh uniform. Nothing but a pair of flight wings with no name. You’d been herded by Kaydel Ko Connix to the Command Center for your squadron assignments, and as you disappeared past his X-Wing as he did repairs, he had spared a quick thought about how_pretty_ you were. 

_Beautiful _hadn’t graced his mind yet – not until he saw you running training exercises alongside the other new cadets; not until he saw you _fly. _

You were _amazing. _Fast and nimble and skilled and daring. _Beautiful. _

He’s _excited _when Leia approves his pick of you for Black Squadron – you’re top-of-your-class, sitting among the top five, and skilled with mechanics as well. All in all, you’re a formidable addition to Black Squadron.

But, _you… _you’re a _spitfire. _

He _hates it. _

Any thoughts of admiration are shoved aside when the butting of heads begins – you’re infuriating, full of vibrancy that panders to your youth, and Poe doesn’t _care _if you’re a good pilot. You’re _reckless. _You’re a _fighter _and you’re _stubborn _and you drive him up the _god damn wall. _

It’s not until after Voss, after he spends too much unwanted time with you that he’s reminded of you beautiful you really are.

You smile at him on the tarmac after a mission one night, face bathed in the warm hues of a setting D’Qar sun – your hair is a mess and your nose scrunches and you haul yourself up out of the cockpit to knuckle-touch Jessika. Someone says something about drinks and you smile again, eyes finding Poe to ask sweetly _if he’s coming or what_.

His whole words stops spinning. 

It’s _beautiful. _

You’re beautiful.


	9. Stress!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested: Ooh what about Poe/Punchy walking in on the other softly crying over something. Like a real close call that shook them up, the death of a friend, or just swelling emotions in general?? Cue the comfort bby

Sometimes, it’s a lot.

Sometimes, Poe wishes his Mom was here. 

(She always knew what to do – when things went _bad, _she always knew how to fix it, be it words or actions. Shara Bey was a saint in her own right, a hero, a _good mom. _Poe can barely stomach the reminder that she would never see him grow to walk in her footsteps with the Resistance, to become a New Republic Navy Pilot, to _be good. _She was taken from him and his father too soon. In moments like these, it hurts like a new wound.)

When you find him, he’s slumped over an ammo crate by the hangar doors. They’re open, letting in the late D’Qar summer air – overhead, the stars look dimmer than usual. The world lacks its usual crescendo of _life _and you wonder if that’s the Force mourning.

Bad missions happen.

Doesn’t make them any easier to stomach.

Poe is a good man who blames himself too easily. You note the bounce of his knee, the way his hands are clasped tightly as his head bows. You can see the break of frustration in his shoulders, hear the quiet intake of a broken breath. 

You hesitate, mouth opening – you’re silent, though, wondering if this is even _your place. _You speak anyways, words sounding so _fake, _so forced. They curl your lip in regret as soon as they leave your mouth.

“I was looking all over for you, Commander.”  


Poe’s head snaps up, eyes widening a fraction as he quickly paws at the tears on his cheeks. He inhales sharply and coughs before speaking quickly. He tries to cover it up, cover the emotions stirring in his gut like a tumultuous sea.

“Yep,” he nods, “Yeah, I’m – I’m here.”  


His voice cracks and you realize that this isn’t good.

But, he stands, claps his hands together, and tries to move on like he always does. Always moving on, always moving forward. You stand there, rooted in the hangar, as he nears. He jams his hands in the pockets of his flight suit and you can see the redness around his eyes – they’re a give-away of the held-back emotions there. His eyes dart to the mission reports in your hand and you can see him trying not to physically recoil.

The contents within those pages aren’t good.

“What’d you need me for?” he asks, “Report log clearances?”  


The datapad in your hand is forgotten. Your voice is soft. It feels foreign.

“… Are you okay?”  


Poe’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Brown eyes fly around, for a moment, before his facade crashes and his jaw tightens. His gaze hits the floor and he rocks on his heels, chewing his lip and turning his back to you. Poe moves, then, back to the ammo crate and crumples against it. 

“… No. I’m not.”  


You’re quiet when you settle next to him, eyes soft as your hand falls along his shoulders. 

“Poe,” you say after a second, broken by the way he just… _stares _off into the sky, “Today, we lost three good pilots. That isn’t your fault. None of it is.”  


He gives a dry laugh. “I was CO on the mission, Punchy. It _is _my fault.”  


“No,” you say sternly then, shoving him lightly, “It’s not. You’re the CO who brought home twenty-two pilots. You’re the CO who successfully manned a mission to destroy the First Order outpost of this war. And if… if you’re going to call that whole mission a failure because of those three losses? That makes their deaths mean nothing.”  


His lashes flutter. His nostrils flare. He’s pinned under your gaze. <strike>You’re beautiful.</strike>

“I’m serious, Poe,” you breathe, “You did _everything _right – You… You always do.”  


The confession is pulled apart by distance. You move away, ignoring the closeness of his face as you wave your hand and turn to the stars. Now isn’t the time to wish for _closer moments,_now isn’t the time to ache for his skin on yours. Now isn’t the time to want to _touch him, _to soothe away the worry.

“No one blames you,” you mumble, “No one.”  


“And still,” he croaks, “I have to sign those reports – sign those letters to their family –”  


“Because you’re a good leader,” you cut him off, sternness returning as your turn fully to eye him carefully. Your hand falls to his shoulder and you plead, “You need to see that, Poe. All of those things are _formalities. _You think the First Order does that?”  


He goes quiet. 

“You can mourn, Poe,” you say finally, “Fet and Jheda and Glov were our friends. But don’t… don’t shoulder the weight of their deaths alone. Please. For me.”  


A shaky nod. You nudge him.

“I mean it.”  


“I know.”  


“You know where my quarters are,” you say as you stand, “If you wanna talk.”  


Poe swallows thickly, heart lurching. “Thanks, Punchy.”

You hesitate before you leave, speaking gently. “You’d do the same for me.”

He would. You know that.


	10. Love Me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: “You love me.” Poe & Punchy pLS

“Someone’s been busy.”

You snicker to yourself, currently going on hour five of being situated under the dropped engine of your T-68 model X-Wing in the busy hangar bay. You fiddle with the transistor module, noting the wear and tear there before your attention is called _again _by the dark-haired Commander hovering above you.

You roll out, beckoned by the clearing of his throat.

He smiles down at you from your roller and you cock a brow. You’re amused.

“Can I help you?”  


“Come and eat.”  


You roll your eyes, sitting up and snagging a rag from your toolbox by the landing gear of the X-Wing. You roll back under the engine, trying to rub some of the crud from the oil cap. In a note of dismissal, you offer Poe a distracted:

“I gotta get this finished, Poe.”

“Okay,” he says, shrugging, “I’ll wait.”  


You pause, wheeling back out from the engine. You narrow your eyes at him.

“You’ll wait?”  


“I,” he cheeps, “was looking forward to eating dinner with my Lieutenant – so, I’ll wait.”  


Some sort of warm emotion flares in your cheeks, spurring a bashful smile as you rub at the black grease on your fingertips. Pushing your tongue to the slide of your mouth, you laugh a little – Poe’s face splits into a proud look at the gesture.

“So?”  


“So,” you mumble, “I guess this can wait.”  


“Yea?” he squints, playfully gesturing to the engine, “If you wanna finish –”  


You laugh and shake your head, rising up from the dura-cement floor and shrugging on the top of your flight suit, “You’re the worst, you know.”  


“You love me.”  


_Maybe_. But, you keep that to yourself as you walk beside him to the mess.


	11. Punches Pulled!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested: I could see Poe and Punchy flirting via hand to hand combat practice! Like trying to out do each other and the whole “i wanna fight you to show im better than you not because i want to be this close to you or anything”

“Stop pulling your punches.”

Poe rolls his shoulders. You gawk, side-stepping a swing and laughing a little — you fire back, landing one on his ribs.

“You sure about that?”

Poe cracks a smile, grappling with another thrown punch and tangling you in a volley. He twists your arm, other hand bracing your shoulder. You’re stuck, wincing at the strain, and desperately trying to ignore how close he is. You can feel his breath along your neck.

You step on his foot, rocking your weight back, before he can noticed the goosebumps along your skin.

(You hate how he can do this to you recently. He’s… distracting. It’s annoying — the little things you’re used to knock you off balance. He smiles at you and you just about melt into a puddle. Agreeing to sparring was a stupid idea. But, you find that you can hardly ever say no to Poe Dameron nowadays.)

Your hips jut back into his, sending Poe backwards into the mat. You’re fast to turn, planting two hands on his arms and locking them high above his head as you gasp and try to catch your breath — there you sit, on his abdomen, pinning him to the mat.

There’s a moment of something then. Something in the way he stares and the way you stare back.

Poe, through labored breaths, lifts his hips and bridges them. The move sends you forward, hands hitting the mat above his head as you try to catch yourself. His hands brace on your waist, groaning at the impact of your weight on him.

And so you find yourself chest to chest, nose to nose, with Poe Dameron the exact moment General Organa enters the training room with debriefs in hand.

She leaves with a smirk, both of you clamoring to follow.


	12. Slave Bikinis are Objectifying!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon laughed: Put,,,,put Poe in the metal bikini situation. If Leia and Punchy can handle it so can he.

“This is ridiculous and humiliating —”

“Mhm.”

“— And objectifying.”

“Please, tell me _all_ about it, Poe.”

He shuts his mouth then, realizing he is very much preaching to the choir, before rounding a corner of the smuggler’s den and sticking close to your side. You check the loading bay and once it’s clear of any Hutt strongmen, you point to your freighter sitting idle.

“Quietly,” you whisper, noting the sleeping Gamorrean by the ammo crates, “Let’s go.”

But, Poe Dameron can’t do quiet. Not when his every step jingles. The body jewelry hanging from his hips is gold and citrine, his regalia leaving very little to the imagination — he freezes, slowing his movements and slapping his hands to the gems on his thighs to try and silence the tinkering. Even the collar around his neck rattles, the left over foot of a chain dangling against his chest — the link is snapped where you’d shot it clean off.

Poe grits his teeth together, wincing.

The guard, somehow, stays asleep.

You roll your eyes, shoving him along.

“C’mon, _Princess_.”

“Never again —”

Once in the freighter, you sag with relief and Poe’s fast to meet you in the cockpit. He’s opted to ignore the ensemble he’d been muscled into when the Hutt cartel had accepted the trade — you’d posed as a bounty hunter, handing over Dameron for information on First Order trade routes. Then, you’d snuck back into the den around midnight to get Dameron back. All in all, a pretty flawless recon mission.

With the added bonus of seeing Dameron in a metal bikini. You don’t even try to hide your amusement.

“Not very comfy, is it?”

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’, “It is very breezy.”

You lean over him to prime the hyperdrive and undo the landlock. Poe ignores your snickers.

“I bet they _loved_ you, though. Did you dance?”

“Ha ha.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Shut up, Punchy.”

You eye the chiffon fabric along his thighs and shrug, settling into the co-captain chair beside him. Cheekily, you kick up the engine.

“Red is definitely your color, Commander.”

“Shut. Up.”


	13. Hand in Hand!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon pleaded: Hope. Hope. Make em hold hands

“_We got a problem, Poe —”_

Before Poe Dameron can reply to Karé over the comms, a blaster round is skimming by his head, prompting him to curse and prompting you to fly off the Bespin barstool in search of cover on the ground.

Immediately, Poe lets out a string of curses as you muscle the blaster from your hip and spare him a wide-eyed glance.

“I guess it’s time to go,” he chirps.

“Someone blew our cover?”

“_Sorry_,” its Oddy, sounding far away from his headset, “_They started asking questions in the hangar. I panicked_.”

“What’d you do?” you screech into your earpiece, “Shoot them?”

Around you and Poe, the bar is dissolving into chaos. So much for meeting up with an informant. This is a mess. Above you, green and red blaster fire lights up the room and sends the opalescent, chrystalline lighting fixtures raining down over you both.

You wince and Poe is quick to snatch the hand you raise to cover your eyes from the debris.

You don’t have time to argue.

“Time to move, Punchy!”

You yelp, locking your fingers with his as you both dart under the bar and towards the exit — once in the open hallway, you tighten your grip on Poe’s hand as you both book it towards the hangar. His legs are longer than yours and you try your best to keep up.

Behind you, the shouts of an alien language do not sound very welcoming. And sure enough, in a blink, more rounds are fired at your backs.

Poe slides as he turns and you run into his shoulders. You spur him forward, panic rising as the bounty hunters close in.

“Keep it moving, Poe!”

Once in the hangar, you break from him to lay down cover fire with Snap — your aim is shit with a blaster, but you manage to knock of three of the supposed bounty hunters as the freighter you’d rode in on as started up by Oddy and L’ulo.

“_C’mon_, kid!”

It’s Poe who grabs your hand again, dragging you to the entrance ramp and scrambling to shut the door as Oddy drops the ship from its gravity lock and plunges the rig int the Bespin clouds.

When you finally catch your breath, you realize you’re still holding Poe’s hand.


	14. Firsts, Seconds and Lasts!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon questioned: okay but what about the first time punchy caught herself being nice to poe? and vice versa?

It happens without you even realizing it.

First, it’s the smiles. Little gestures that bubble at the mere sight of the Flight Commander in question. They’re always returned, maybe with a little shock. Those stupid smiles slip onto your face without you even realizing it and you kick yourself for it. So, with Section 3, Article 4.2 of the New Republic Navy’s code in mind, you try to push away the gooey feelings that your Flight Commander prompts.

Fraternization isn’t just a Navy rule. It’s a code of ethics.

And then, it’s the jokes. Little jokes. Little, itsy bitsy jokes that volley across comms in the middle of flights. They’re different from the digs, from the one-sided snark. These jokes are born out of mutual amusement. It’s a shared humor. You hate how, suddenly, Poe Dameron is one of the funniest men you know.

Finally, it’s the repairs.

“Something’s off.”

“I noticed you’ve been favoring your left,” you offer, mouth full as you chew thoughtfully on your dinner. Across from you, Poe is pacing before his T-70 model X-Wing. You swing your legs as you perch on the repair crate, taking a bite of bread, “Could be your alignment?”

The hangar is quiet, save for you and Poe. It’s late now, and as you finish up the rest of your dinner, Poe sighs.

“You think?”

You wipe your hands on your flightsuit and stand.

“Want me to look?”

It’s a genuine offer, spurred by Poe’s wide eyes. You duck under the main control panel — with a quick gesture, you flag him over.

“I’ll show you how to check,” you chirp, “S’ easy.”

“I studied strategy and diplomacy at the Academy, Punchy,” he says, straining his neck to look up at the panel you’re pulling back underneath the cockpit, “Normally I leave mechanical work to the _mechanics_.”

“Lucky for you,” you grin, _“I studied_ _mechanics_. C’mon. C’mere. See that dial — that’s the alignment read-out bar. It’ll tell you what rotators need a fluid change. If one is lower than the other, it’s gonna feel off. It’s gotta do with the wing-counter balance…”

Poe listens — though, half-way through his mind wanders to you. You’re pressed up against him, shoulder to his chest as he watches you poke and proud at the paneling. You’re chattering excitedly, content in your own realm of expertise and it’s _cute_. Really cute. A smile splits across his face before he can stop it.

You ask him a question.

You’re met with silence. _And_ a smile.

“What?” you ask, a bit sheepish, eyes catching his. His gaze is warm. Inviting.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, eyes never leaving yours. He clears his throat, “You’re just cute when you talk all… _mechanical_.”

You laugh at that — embarrassment floods your face as you pat the underside of his ship. You lose your train of thought, stammering as you shrug and back away.

“Sorry,” you say finally, returning to your meal and taking a bite of the meal, “I get excited.”

“Oh, I know,” Poe offers, eyes twinkling, “I like it. Like I said, it’s cute.”

There’s that word again. Your head ducks and Poe feels a little proud that he’s able to knock you off your game.

(He threw Section 3, Article 4.2 to the wind weeks ago.)

“If you need help with other repairs…” you shrug, perching on your crate again, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

_ Is this flirting? Are you flirting? _

Poe’s lips quirk. “Alright. Sure.”

You drum your spoon on your tray.

Both of you laugh.

You walk away with a smile.


	15. Get Out!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: “do you wanna get out of here?” 4 poe & punchy aaa

Sometimes it’s painful having friends who are in love.

In your case, you’re finding that going out with Snap and Karé, as well as the new-item of Jessika and Suralinda can sometimes be like a punch in the face.

Oddy had opted out tonight, leaving you with L’ulo as your fellow emotional support single.

But, plans have changed because L’ulo and that right-guard from Rapier Squadron have been flirting _all night. _And_ here you are,_ kinda wishing that was you. Not… Not flirting with L’ulo. But being flirted with.

Your newly realized crush on Poe Dameron is like an eternal case of heartburn. Everything he does leaves your knees feeling like pudding now-a-days and it’s stupid. It’s _so_ stupid. Yesterday, he handed you a datapad at debrief and you started sweating. It’s like… fight or flight. But instead of punching him, you just wanna kiss him.

You drum your fingers on the bar and take a long sip from your fruity, strong, jet-fuel drink.

The cantina is packed — you’re at the end of the bar, having migrated far from the flirt-fest going on with the rest of Black Sqaudron. You realize you probably look really pathetic, but at least you didn’t have to stomach the evident blooming of romance.

If Poe was a Lieutenant, you would have already made your move. _Definitely_. You take another long sip. But he’s a Commander and you’re a Lieutenant. You’re new and he’s the poster boy of the Resistance. People would definitely think it was a play for a promotion._Definitely_. You sip your drink again.

Can’t happen. It can’t happen. So, just… forget about it. And him. Forget about Poe Dameron and… I dunno. Go back to your quarters and watch some more Mandalorian soap operas… that will inevitably make you feel sad about romance again.

But, it can’t happen. So, best to move on from Poe Dameron all together.

“Hey, you.”

… _Fuck_.

You turn in your chair, eyes wide. It’s Poe. He’s got a beer in his hand and his jacket is shrugged on his shoulders. He must have just gotten back from the assignment Leia had sent him on. He wasn’t due back for another day but… Your face cracks into a bright smile.

“You’re back.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “Easy recon. Figured I’d book it back. Cobalt Squadron was talking about running drills tomorrow morning and I didn’t wanna miss anything.”

Your mouth is dry. Watching him talk is like a honey IV drip. He’s pretty — very pretty. Behind him, the cantina swims. Right now, he’s the center of your universe and your heart aches.

“Drills.”

“Yeah,” he squints, “Where’s everyone else, kid?”

_Kid_. You hate that nickname. To him it’s a term of endearment. To you, it’s a reminder of your status as nothing more than a new, young pilot here.

“Oh, uh. End of the bar. There’s… a lot.”

Poe’s brow raises. You’re a little drunk, it seems, but coherent enough that he gets what you mean. He leans around you and spies the ‘_lot_’ in question. He chuckle, a deep and warm sound, as he hums in understanding.

“What, didn’t wanna be a part of the love-fest?”

You snort into your cocktail. “Nope.”

“Yeah, well, me neither,” Poe pats the bar, kicking off from it, “What d’ya say, you wanna get outta here?”

You blink up at him, telling yourself you should say no. You should swear yourself off Poe Dameron. You should leave this infatuation to burn out.

Your smile is giddy and drunk.

“Yeah. Why not.”

_Oops_.


	16. For You!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: oh god please do “do you like it?” for Punchy/Poe after a lengthy awkward pause — like a surprisingly thoughtful and extremely meaningful gift from one to the other ... you’re a DOLL

You don’t talk about home much.

But, Poe?

Poe talks about Yavin 4 almost constantly. His homeworld is a source of joy for him — it is, after all, where he grew up, where he lived, where he learned how to fly. That modest plot of land on that mossy Yavin moon was home to more than just his family. It was home to good memories that shaped him into the man he is today.

In the back of the house was a Uneti tree, a gift from Luke Skywalker himself. Before it was planted there, the seed was one of the only remaining relics from the Jedi temple back on Coruscant. Poe tells a story sometimes of when he was younger; he rigged up some pod racing engines and accidentally scalded the tree’s bark. His father made him spend weeks tending to the tree and nursing it back to health.

So, when you’d stumbled across a Uneti pendent in a market off-world, you’d bought it without second thought. You didn’t even barter the price, just paid its worth and wrapped in it a cloth before tucking it into your satchel and bringing it back to D’Qar along with the gathered information on First Order supply shipments through the Outer Rim.

You catch Poe after the debrief.

“I, uh, got you something.”

His brows quirk. He laughs a little. “You did?”

He watches as you bend, digging out a carefully wrapped item from your bag and handing it over gingerly.

Suddenly, a flare of self-consciousness strikes you in the chest and you wonder if this was a good idea. If he didn’t like it… well, that would no doubt make things a little weird between you both. You hope the gesture doesn’t do that anyways. You squirm a little as he takes the bundle and tucks his datapad under his arm.

Poe’s lips part in honest shock when he sees the pendant.

You watch, wringing your hands, as he pulls the carving from the fabric and admires it in the light. His eyes are soft, lips playing at the ghost of a smile that’s lost on you. You’re too busy panicking over his silence, lip pulled between your teeth.

“… Do you like it?”

He’s gobsmacked.

More silence.

“I saw it and — you always told that story about the one back at your house,” you try to supply, waving your hands, “I know it’s kinda stupid —”

He blinks. “It’s beautiful.”

Your eyes widen. Poe’s whole face is soft.

You… You’re — He’s speechless. It’s hard to rob Poe of words but you’ve done it. You’ve gone and struck him right in the heart with a gesture so kind he doesn’t even know how to respond. He wishes he could just kiss you.

“It’s… Thank you. This means a lot to me.”

Your words die in your throat.

_ Oh, Maker, he’s pretty. And honest. And kind. And he’s looking at you like you’re the center of his universe and you’re really hoping that’s not wishful thinking. _

“It’s nothing,” you laugh sheepishly.

“Thank you,” he says again, slipping it around his neck and reaching to squeeze your hand, “Seriously, Punchy. That was, uh, really nice of you. I owe you.”

You gawk. “N-No, Poe, seriously…”

He pulls away with a heavy smile. “I owe you.”

_ Yeah, okay, sure. _


	17. Cold! No more!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: What about Punchy and Poe getting stranded on another planet and having to wait it out in the cold together? Nothing to do but talk and possibly keep warm. Inspired by 'Aye, share the blankets' from your prompt list?

“This is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t really have much of a choice here, kid,” Poe calls over his shoulder, words creating clouds in the Hoth air as he hikes through the snow dunes and leads the way, “We either sit out there and freeze before rescue comes, or we find a cave and get warm.”

“And become a Wampa meal, you mean?”

Poe’s brows raise behind his snow goggles and he shrugs. You had a point. But, the cave up ahead looks empty enough. No tracks are coming in or out. The storm that had stranded you both had laid down a fresh heaping of snow — so, it was probably the best you could both find for now. Unless something was holed up inside. Which, Poe decided he didn’t wanna think about.

“C’mon. Up here.”

Once inside, the winds die down to a meager howl and you can feel your face again. The cave is dark, illuminated by the flashlight in Poe’s hands.

“Roomy.”

“Not exactly the nicest place,” he heaves, pulling his scarf from his face, “But Karé said they’d be here with the day — so we’ll wait it out.”

The wind outside howls again. You mimic Poe, peeling off a layer before sighing.

“Think we can find enough stuff to start a fire?” you chatter, heart rate slowing from the exhaust of the climb and the bone-numbing chill returns under your snow suit.

“If we’re lucky.”

You aren’t. You get a small little fire going that’s enough for a light source but nothing more.

And so here you are, freezing as the sun sets in this big, dark cave. Poe, across the fire from you, is shivering too. You can see him shoulders shake.

Your teeth chatter when you speak.

“This is, like, the worst way to die.”

Poe blinks up at you. His nose is red. He pulls his scarf tighter and crosses his arms. “We aren’t gonna die.”

“Speak for yourself!” you shiver, groaning, “I’m so damn cold —”

“C’mere, then,” he says slowly, eyes darting over your face, “I got some spare body heat.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. And then, throwing caution to the wind, you crawl to his side and plop yourself down beside him.

It’s Poe who throws his arm around your shoulders. It you who leans closer, happy with the heat he gives off. He’s the one who leans back, you’re the one who starts to doze off into his chest. It’s him who apologizes when his arm falls asleep, and you who mumbles something in your sleep before burying your face father into his snow suit.

“Punchy,” he groans, “My arm.”

“Sorry.”

He moves then, letting you reposition and drape yourself across his shoulder. Both of his arms secure themselves around you.

You’re warm.

He’s content.

Sleep is light — framed by Poe’s breathing and the ever present cold, but it comes in dreams where this closeness isn’t a survival tactic.

Sure enough, when morning creeps over the horizon in glimmering golden rays, you’re both warm.

And neither of you say a word about the proximity shared when Karé picks you both up with a smile.


	18. Outside Opinion!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: hope i gotta know i just GOTTA KNOW........ what does everyone else in black squadron think abt the poe/punchy relationship? are they all on board? do they have bets running of who’s gonna crack first? i must know you beautiful angel tell me all their secrets 😩🤧

“… So?”

Poe thumbs his communicator, face split into a wide grin at the message he’d just received — it was something snarky from you, cursing him up and down about the early roll-call for mandatory drills tomorrow morning. His face is ducked, lashes kissing his cheeks as he lets out a breath of a laugh.

“So.”

Snap’s face is blooming into a grin across the bar from him. He eyes the communicator, then Poe’s smile. He takes a swig of his beer. “So, _you and the LT.?”_

Poe raises a brow. “Me and Punchy…?”

“Mhm,” another swig, “What’s up with you two?”

Poe drums his knuckles on the cantina counter before sipping his own beer. Snap smirks. Poe exhales through his mouth, leaning back in the stool before shrugging quickly. “I dunno.”

“You dunno?” Snap asks, leaning in, “What does _that_ mean?”

“I… Y’know. I dunno,” Poe laughs a little, “Why?”

“Why? Seriously — you two have been, uh… getting _close, _is all. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

“We?”

Snap raises both his brows.

Poe curses under his breath. “… It’s that apparent?”

“Maker, yea, Poe —”

His communicator beeps again. It’s you.

A nervous sort of dread flies across Poe’s face.

And Snap just _laughs_.


	19. Losses and Support!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: hope what would Poe do if punchy was having a shit day or he like saw her in a vulnerable state?

One pilot goes down on this mission.

A cadet from Rapier Squadron.

He knows it’s not good when you land and promptly throttle your helmet across the hangar, screaming curses in your native tongue as you storm away, towards your quarters with hell on your heels.

He waves off Jessika as she moves to follow, and advises she gives you some space to cool off.

It’s late when Poe knocks on your door.

You holler, dejected and tired. “_What?”_

“It’s me, kid.”

You think about not opening it. You could ignore him, and just lay here, put your headphones back in and continue onto the third season of _Gael’oa, _the Mandalorian soap opera you’d been binging. But, when he knocks again and calls out —

“C’mon, Punchy, I got you dinner. It’s your favorite.”

— You have to answer.

You look like hell. The door slides open fast and Poe blinks down at you. Your hair is wild, Starfighter Corp issued sweater hanging off your shoulders. It swallows you, flight suit compression shorts barely poking out from underneath the black hem. Your eyes are ringed with some sort of emotion. Poe’s gut wrenches at the idea that you’d been crying.

He feels like a massive ass.

Taking the plate of noddles from his hands, your bare feet pad against the floor as your retreat, crawling back into bed and unceremoniously hitting the play button on your datapad.

Poe exhales, brows raised.

He closes the door behind him, stepping into your quarters and leaning against the kitchenette’s island. He crosses his arms, eyeing you as you curl back into bed. You fork a pile of noodles into your mouth and chew.

Poe clears his throat.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You blink up at him, as if you’d forgotten he was there, before pausing your show and speaking frankly:

“No.”

His head drops. He sighs. “Kid —”

“Don’t,” you snap, catching yourself and winding it down, “Don’t call me _kid_.”

Poe’s mouth closes. He swallows. When he speaks again, it’s slow and apologetic and honest. “I’m sorry. I — it’s a bad habit and I need to be better about it.”

You just turn your gaze from him to the noodles. You fork the plate. Poe moves then, planting himself on the edge of your bed. The weight shifts and you watch him. You feel a little guilty for snapping. He’s just trying to help — he’s doing the very thing you’d done for him a few weeks ago.

Support.

You drop your plate to your knee and speak softly after a moment of quiet.

Your heart aches at the replaying sight of Rapier 5 dropping out of the sky in flames.

“I graduated with Donzo,” you say, “I tutored him in our third year Mechanical Engineering class.”

Poe’s hands are clasped. He turns to look at you. “I’m sorry.”

You wave your hand and drop your head. Something horribly embarrassing pricks at your eyes and nose and you snarl to try and hide the tears.

“It’s stupid,” you bite, “This… This whole war is stupid. _He_ was a kid, Poe. He was young — he had family back on Naboo and…”

Suddenly you’re not so hungry.

“He died doing what he loved,” you croak out, rubbing your eyes, “Which is all you can ever ask for, I guess. It’s just… I dunno…”

“Scary?”

“_Terrifying_,” you breathe and Poe nods, leaning back on his palm, “Any time we fly… either of us… Any day you could go down. And I… I thought I learned how to block that out but… It’s_paralyzing_.”

He wonders if you really mean that. If… If that slip of a confession means what he wishes it did. Poe’s voice is soft as he shifts closer. “Punchy, you can’t think like that.”

“I know —” you hiss through tears, “But I do. I… Today is the first time in a long time that I panicked. I freaked out up there, Poe.”

Poe’s heart wanes. He moves then, gathering your plate and holopad and placing them both on your nightstand as you hiccup. His face is soft as he moves to rub your back.

“It’s okay to be scared, Punchy.”

You blink up at him. He’s being honest.

“You,” he says, “are one of the most important people in my life and I know you’ve got my back. But I have yours, too, y’know. In the sky and on the ground… What you’re feeling is _real_and _fair_. The Resistance lost a pilot, but you lost a friend today. And I’m sorry.”

You sniffle and swipe at your eyes, leaning into his chest. “S’ not your fault.”

“I know,” he says, brow soft with worry, “But it’s not yours either.”

You nod. Silence slips between you both. Poe’s thumb sweeps your spine and you exhale. The closeness is nice. You try not to think too much about it, but it’s hard when he’s being so damn sweet.

“Anything I can do?”

You shake your head. “No. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve said you hate it when I call you kid,” he shrugs, pulling away and crossing his arms, “I don’t mean it in a nasty way, y’know. It’s affectionate.”

Your heart clenches. Inside, your soul makes a dying sound. _Affectionate_. You wish he was still touching you.

“Thanks for dinner, Poe.”

“You’d do the same for me,” Poe offers, patting your thigh as he stands, “No sweat.”

None at all.


	20. Crooked Jump-Wings!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> miscellaneoustoasts asked: okay but?? is there ever a moment where poe and punchy see each other dressed formal attire? and they’re flirting and poking fun at each other??? and punchy adjusts poe’s tie???? and her touch lingers for a moment and she breathes “you look nice” before biting her lip and nervously running her hand through her hair before storming off??????

Resistance-aligned formal New Republic Navy diplomacy calls for stuffy dinner parties and stuffier attire – lots of browns and brass, lots of shined boots and pressed uniforms. 

Lots of drinks, too.

The gathering was mostly an excuse for Leia to recruit with her best pilots at her side. While the Resistance’s cause was widely supported under by the Navy and Senate, it still required a little footwork in the way of spreading information and garnering support. It was a risk – especially during peace time. The First Order was still operating de facto; while very _real, _their advances hadn’t yet been deemed in violation of The Intergalactic Amnesty Act set in motion by the Galactic Concordance. 

With a Centrist majority in the Senate, you doubted that realization would come for a while. So, for now, you and the other members of Black Squadron will settle on being touted as bulldogs and peacekeepers, all in the same sentence. 

Poe Dameron, of course, is a natural fixture at this event.

You catch him in a break between small talk – he hasn’t caught his breath since he arrived, being whisked away as Lt. Connix introduced him to the clamoring representatives. 

Poe visibly relaxes upon seeing you approach with two flutes of nectarwine in hand. You spare him a sympathetic smile, nudging him with your elbow as you hand off the glass and lean against the wall beside him. He finally gets the opportunity to munch on the hors d'oeuvres in his opposite hand.

“How’s it goin’?”  


“Oh, you know,” Poe mutters into his drink, chewing, “Brown nosing.”  


You laugh, leaning back against the window sill and shrugging. “They love you. It’s the whole_dashing hero pilot _in _navy regalia. _It really gets the blood pumping.”

Poe’s brows quirk and he smirks. “Oh yea?”

“_Oh yea,” _you parrot, downing the rest of your drink, “Your flight-wings are on the wrong side, by the way. Crooked, too. _Commander_ –”  


Poe curses softly, blinking down at his chest and rolling his eyes. He looks around for a waiter to drop his glass with, but you move in front of him instead. You prop your empty flute on the window sill of the ballroom, stepping to stand toe to toe with him. 

“I’ve never been good with the whole dress code regulations…”  


His voice is soft, breath fanning across your face. You’re thankful for the amount of booze in your system. It makes the proximity less nerve wracking. The room swims a bit, but you’re hyper-focused on the task at hand.

Your hands are quick to unfasten the medal and re-orient it to the other side of his uniform’s chest. Poe clears his throat, sheepishness creeping onto his face. You tut, sparing him a single glance upwards as you smooth the fabric and fix the crease in the collar.

“When’s the last time you _wore _this?” 

“I dunno,” he rumbles, eyes never leaving your face, “Maybe a year ago.”  


“Must be nice.”  


“You have no idea.”  


You snort. Poe grins. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”  


Poe’s arms are out to the side, his face split into a goofy smile as you rock back on your heels and snag a cracker from the napkin in his hand. Your face is twisted with something mischievous. You pat his chest, waving him off.

“Now scram,” you say, munching, “Go flirt with some senators. Give ‘em that handsome Dameron smile and get us funding for new X-Wings.”  


He’s walking away, lips pulled upwards. “_Handsome_?”

“Did I stutter?”  


No, no you did not.


	21. Echoes of Personality!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: How does Leia feel about Poe & Punchy? Does it remind her of her and Han?

“No more punching, I see.”  


Poe blinks up from the report.

His lashes bat, confusion fleeting onto his face.

Across the holo-projection, Leia is smirking. It’s late and the command center is sparsely populated – a few overnight techs monitor the airways, but the only sound in the room is him and Leia going over a reconnaissance report. 

The mention of your name spurs the comment.

“Don’t play dumb.”  


Poe drops his head, then, realizing she meant _you. _He breaks into a little laugh. “Sorry – I… Yeah, General, no more punching.”

“You did kind of deserve it –”  


He winces. “Yea, I know. Twice. I deserved it _twice.”_

“So…?”

His brow quirks and his posture relaxes. “So,_ what?”_

“Is this something I should…._ turn a blind eye to,_ Commander Dameron?”  


His smile jumps, followed by the planting of his hands on his waist as he exhales and shrugs lightly. “I’m not too sure yet, General.”

Leia’s face softens. The formalities are simply because of other officers in the room. For a long time, Poe had become a son-figure to her. After Shara’s passing and Ben’s turning, the two souls had found support in one another. There’s love there – there was love there with Han, too. He was a good man. Leia sees a lot of Han in Poe. 

She sees a lot of herself in you, too.

“Fingers crossed,” she chirps, “Goodnight, Commander.”  


He waves as she departs, C3-P0 in tow. 

“Fingers crossed.”


	22. Closet Tension!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: Ok but get this. Poe and punchy having to hide quickly from danger or whatever and the only thing pave available to hide is a very tiny closet. Also, will all these new writings be added to the Poe and Punchy AO3?

“_Shit –”_  


You’re promptly _yanked, _reeling backwards as Poe fists the back of your collar; he hauls you backwards, hand moving to smother the yelp that’s forced out of you as you stumble backwards, vision going dark as the maintenance hatch door is punched shut.

Your pupils dilate, trying to make out the shapes in the closet – your hands grapple with Poe behind you, legs kicking as you drop right into his lap. 

His hand tightens on your mouth, voice dangerously low.

“_Quiet_.”  


One sliver of golden light paints you both frozen as two bounty hunters stroll by the door. The crack gives you a single glance but it’s enough to confirm your suspicions. You recognize them from the botched Bespin mission.

They’re Hutts’ people.

You’re fast to rotate in Poe’s hold, hair wild as you swat at his chest. Your legs straddle his thigh, shoulders cramped tight by the shelving units holding various cleaning supplies. Poe shifts on the upturned mop bucket, wincing. You hiss.

“_Warn me _next time –”

“Oh, I’m _sorry,” _he bites, “I was a little preoccupied –”  


You move, trying to stand up, and promptly slam your head into a shelf.

The sound is loud. Before you can let out a string of curses, the sound echoes down the hall and the receding footsteps stop. Immediately, Poe’s hand is over your mouth again – he smothers the pained moan you let out as you rub the crown of your head.

The footsteps turn. And approach.

Immediately, you both grow silent.

You’re trying to ignore the _hellish _pain from nearly fracturing your damn skull on the shelves, trying to listen to the footsteps of the heavily armed bounty hunters. 

What you’re _really _doing is sitting a breath away from Poe’s face. You’re in his lap, hands wrapped in his jacket and nose brushing his as you try to slow your breathing, try to quiet the racing heartbeat in your chest as Poe’s hand slips from your mouth and he raises it to his own lips, gesturing for silence. You watch his honeyed eyes bounce around as he listens, waiting for the steps to recede. He leans, then, a sliver of his face illuminated by the seam in the door.

It feels like forever, but finally Poe sees them round a corner and depart from the hallway you’re both holed up in. 

“Same headhunters as before,” he whispers, head distant from the proximity shared, “Could be Kanjiklub.”

“No way,” you shake your head, “They’re Hutts. Kanjis have their armor branded –”  


Poe blinks back up at you.

It’s like being punched in the god damn chest. Suddenly, it crashes over him how close you both are, how your hands are wound in his jacket, how you’re settled fully in his lap, how your nose-to-nose with him – you’re warm and real and beautiful and _right there._

Time stops for a moment.

He swallows, words dying in his throat. Your heart whines when his eyes dart to your mouth, tempted by the sight –

“… Poe –”  


“_Poe, we’ve got a problem –”_  


The cry of the comms pulls you both apart and time continues. You’ve got a mission to finish, after all. You try to ignore the pained stab of a missed opportunity as he breaks from you, opening the door and leading the way.

_Shit_.  



	23. Sun and Moon!

His smile is a little bit like morning sun – warm and welcoming and full of promise. When it falls on you, you can’t help but bloom into an uncharacteristically sunnier version of yourself, moving past all the once-there animosity in favor of Poe Dameron’s poster-boy charm.

It’s a recent development, one that’s nested in your chest like a horde of ravenous Grutchins. The feeling eats away at your usually cold, cool composure – it swells and blooms under his smile.

The flirting is… _cosmic._

If he’s the sun, then you’re moon – he orbits you completely, anchored to you. Not only in the sky, where you volley back and forth through the clouds as his flank-guard, but on the ground. 

“Look at that!”

“You should _not _be proud. It’s _not_ impressive –”  
  
Poe’s grin warms your face as you laugh, hopping down to the tarmac and shaking your head. Ten feet away, he’s mirroring you – his roguish charm rolls off him in waves, pride mingling with piqued amusement. He turns, shoulder bumping yours as he gestures to his x-wing.

“It’s _pretty _impressive –”

“No one is impressed, Poe,” you shove him lightly, surveying the near destruction of his entire right wing – it’s mangled and charred with an impact blast that had rendered his entire right flight system down. _Somehow, _the ace pilot had managed to land the near-wreckage, “No one.”

“C’mon, Punchy,” he chirps, planting his hands on his waist as he swivels on his heels and eyes the ship, “I can fly anything –”

“Oh, shut up,” you snort, moving closer, “This is a _mess, _Poe… You’re lucky you made it to the ground in one piece.”

He follows, honey brown eyes glued to you as you cross your arms and wince. On closer inspection, the inner-mechanic in you cries a bit. His wiring is shot. There’s a hole in his wing-balance modulator. The entire right engine looks like a Wampa was sucked through it. It’s a mess. An absolute mess.

You round the landing gear as your eyes wander under the bottom of the ship. Poe meets you on the other side; his hand propped high against the distended pole. You quirk a brow. His face is close to yours as he leans in, expression playful.

“So, Punchy… Can you fix it?”

You roll your eyes, bracing a shoulder against the landing prop, before mimicking his earlier statement. “_I can fix anything.”_

Poe Dameron smiles and you remember how much you love the morning sun.

You laugh, then, and Poe remembers how much he loves the light of the moon.


	24. Pining!

It’s hard to focus.

He’s up there, in front of the entire Resistance High Command, speaking about the encrypted intel L’ulo gathered from a run to the Outer Rim – he’s bathed in the starlight blue glow from the hologram’s hub, a planetary infographic swinging around his head like a halo as he gestures to the marked First Order supply posts. 

Poe Dameron, in this moment, is breathtaking. The pinnacle of leadership, a strong Commander, the poster-boy of the Resistance. 

His flight suit is the icing on the cake, you think, and find your eyes lingering at the dip of his collar. You gaze gets stuck on the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing when Admiral Ackbar takes pause to ask a question. Poe hasn’t shaved in a handful of days. His stubble is dark, lining his sharp jaw that raises as he nods and moves to pinch the infographic and zoom into the cosmic turbulence just beyond Bespin. 

Practiced hands make the gesture graceful.

Beside the other Starlight Corp pilots lining the debriefing, you can’t help but feel small – there are hundreds of you, each hanging off the Commander’s words. You’re no different from the two pilots from Rapier Squadron who are whispering to one another two rows infront of you. 

“Based on the gathered intelligence,” he begins, “It’s safe to assume the First Order is using this debris field as a cover for their supply runs in and out of the system. The rift beyond the astroid belt provides enough atmospheric dissnoance to scramble any trackers. Not to mention, no one wants to go near that wormhole unless they’ve got a death wish.”

You chew the inside of your lip, eyes roaming his figure as he leans back against the projection’s podium. In front of a room full of the Resistance, he is calm and focused and confident – and it’s wildly attractive.

You suppose that’s why _he’s _Commander.

Suddenly, Jessika elbows you and pulls you from your trance. You blink, snapping your eyes from Poe as she grins like a Loth-wolf.

“Thirsty?” she whispers, eyes bounding to Poe. She shakes her canteen.   


You roll your eyes and lean back in your seat, shoving it out of your face. Your expression goes sheepish as you wave her off and try to reign in your apparent oggling.

Jessika snorts to herself. “You sure? You were gonna drool down your uniform if I didn’t say something. Can’t have our Lieutenant getting dehydrated.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, smile daring to tug at your lips, “I’m trying to listen.”  


But, when Poe’s eyes connect with yours for a millisecond, out of all the eyes in the room, all that listening is thrown out the airlock in favor for a few more minutes of blatant appreciation. 

Oops.


	25. Marriage! Fake!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon requested: Poe and Punchy having to play a married couple for a mission? I'm always a sucker for the fake marriage trope

You’re not sure when they started dolling out the recon missions to _you, _a pilot and trained _mechanic, _but maybe it’s because Leia knows you’re good – and beside Poe, the two of you are damn near unstoppable.

When you’d graduated the Academy, you hadn’t anticipated _espionage _to be a marketable trait on your resume; you hadn’t gravitated towards the special ops side of the Navy, instead sticking to mechanics. Fixing things, souping things up… _that _was your niche. 

Poe’s niche is ever-expanding. And, honestly, at this point, he’s taking you with him.

He didn’t study much back in the academy – not that he needed to. Flying, really, was as easy as walking to him. And leadership and strategy were just… nature. Somewhere, the stars had already given him these gifts; having Shara Bey and Kes Dameron as parent’s definitely helped. 

Espionage was always _easy _for Poe. Put on a smile, turn up the charm, get what you need and get out. Easy.

But, with you clinging to his suit’s lapels, giggling brightly over a high-stakes game of Sabacc, in a glimmering gown and flute of champagne clutched in your other hand? With him holding you close, smile pressed to your temple as you lean to admire his current hand? When he loses his train of thought and you slap his knee under the table and grin at him, chirping: “It’s your turn, _husband”_?

Yeah, he’s having a hard time keeping it together. 

Posing as a married gem-dealer would have been fine if it was…. he doesn’t know, _Suralinda? _But, it’s _you _and you’re… _you. _

_You_ have wormed your way right into the homes of his heart and dug in – it feels right, though, like you belong there. You’d come into his life as the world’s biggest pain in the side; now, you’re one of his closest friends. One of the most important people in his life. 

You’re still a damn pain, though, especially when you drape your arm over his shoulder and sit up, lips to his ear as press your ribs to his, whispering that he needs to hurry up and play his hand. 

Your dress glimmers like star-shine.

Poe’s brown eyes blink and he coughs. 

The high-profile players crowding the table are staring. 

Poe looks like a meaner version of himself – curls slicked back and makeup ringed dark under his eyes. His stubble, barely-there and lining his jaw, seems to add to the look of his wheeling and dealing gem-mogul persona. There’s a mustache on his upper-lip, a far cry from his usual look; you suppose that’s a good thing. The people around you are _not _the type to fawn over the Resistance’s star Flyboy. 

Doesn’t mean you can’t. 

He plays his hand and you’re busy staring at him – your eyes roam his face with a mixed sense of awe and curiosity. To those around you at the table, you must look like a content wife, fawning over her successful husband. In reality, you’re trying not to squirm under the weight of his hand across your lower back and draped across your hip. His touch _burns. _

It’s stirring something in your gut that you’ve been trying to ignore for a few weeks now – and when he plants his winning hand down and is met with a chorus of equal groans and cheers, he plants a celebratory kiss on your cheek with a rough laugh. His lips brush the corner of your faked smile, stubble brushing your dimpled expression.

Your world spins. His does too, self-wrought. 

Credits are handed over your heads as your skin burns at his kiss; and when you rob the data-safe on the upper level later that night, it still burns.

All the way back to D’Qar with First Order intel in hand. 


	26. Greys!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon said: punchy messes with poe’s hair just to mess with him,, and poe like,, loves it??? and when she stops he just kinda sits there for a moment like “shiT shit”

“Punchy –”

He toes your boot with his.

You roll out from under the belly of your dropped engine, sweat casting you in a dewey glow. You wipe your face with your sleeve, pulling the goggles off your face and dropping your welder as Poe clears his throat.

Immediately, you whistle. 

He’s been MIA for a few days – doing some recruiting back at the Academy as per Leia’s request; clearly, those last few days have left his to garden a pretty impressive beard. 

You sit up, grin stuck on your face as you puck your gloves off and quirk your head. 

“Look at you.”

Poe groans a little, hand reaching up to scratch his beard before he drops both hands to his hips and lets his head hang. Your smile only grows at his dramatics, eyes batting as he leans to drop his weight on one leg and cock a hip. 

His voice is tired. “You’re, like, the tenth person –”

“Has Snap seen it?” you ask, moving to stand and stretch, “He’s gonna think you’re tryin’ to compete, y’know.”

You stand full height, dropping your hands into your pockets as you sway – your gaze is rooted on the few grays scattered in his beard. They’re few and far between, but they’re there. You snort a little as he raises his head and garners his best _don’t even say it _look. 

You say it anyways. 

“Grey hairs, huh?” you chirp, moving to push a finger towards his chin.

Poe playfully shoves your hand away, prompting you to laugh – and immediately, you step closer and dive a hand to his hair; Poe goes _rigid _at the touch, skin lighting up in goosebumps as you tug on a few curls there lightly, remarking:

“Your hair is getting long, too.”

He can’t help but laugh, pit of his stomach stirring with something dangerous when your hands slip loose and dart to fix the mess you’d wrought. Your fingertips brush his temples, fixing the crown of curls. He clears his throat, shifting on his feet as he scratches his beard again and just _lets you _touch his hair. It’s playful. But it feels _good. _And Poe is sweating. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles finally, trying to maintain an air of unwavering calm, “Tryna grow my greys out–”

You laugh a little, pulling your hands away and butting your hip with his. 

“What, those young Academy pilots stress you out?”

“No,” Poe chirps, smirking, “All these are from you.”

And _god, _they are.


	27. Ten Seconds!

“You, uh, think you could help me out?”

Poe, posed on the supply crate beside your x-wing bay, narrows his eyes as he crosses his arms a little tighter. He leans back, shoulder’s brushing Karé’s as you peek up from your work on the engine before you. 

Your conversation dies in your throat, lip curling a bit in confusion as you blink up at the man before you.

Karé can immediately see the tightening of her flight commander’s jaw, whole posture going rigid as Gret Franz, _god damn it, _strides over and starts trying to chat you up. 

Karé has to hand it to Dagger Squadron’s left-wing. He’s persistent. And Poe is sitting _right there. _And _that _is ballsy. 

Maybe that’s the point. 

Karé wonders if this little game Gret is playing is to out Poe’s _apparent _feelings for his own lieutenant. It’s an unspoken joke among most of the Starfighter Corp. Your relationship with the flyboy, however rocky to start, is clearly _something. _Whether or not either of you are aware it, half the base has already called it. 

“What’s up?” you ask, feigning politeness.

"I – You’re one of the best mechanics we’ve got,” he starts, “I just, uh, was wondering if maybe you could show me a few things?”

“She’s busy.”

Karé elbows Poe’s side.

You sigh, rubbing your face as you pull your gloves off. “G’eu is your mechanic, right?”

“Yeah,” Gret nods, watching as you stand, “They are.”

“Well, they’re _the best _we’ve got,” you chirp, clearly playing it off; your smile is sickeningly sweet, but there’s a flash of something nasty there – Poe sees it, “I’ll put in some word with them, see if they can start showing you some basic mechanical stuff.”

Gret’s mouth moves, eyes slipping shut. 

Poe speaks again. “Like I said, _she’s busy.”_

“Yeah, I got that.”

There’s a pointed moment of tension between them both before Franz seems to deflate, waving a hand in thanks as he parts. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“No problem.”

You’re wiping your hands with your rag, watching him walk away, when Poe scoffs. You turn on your heel, toe of your boot meeting his as you give him a look. Poe jumps a little, eyes turning up to you in confusion.

“Watch it,” you warn, raising a finger.

“Me?”

“Yes, _you,” _you cry quietly, “It’s like you _want _to square up with him again…”

“Well, if he keeps trying to _sleep _with my Lieutenant, maybe, yeah, I will.”

– Oop. Karé, silent and watching the interaction, notes the shift of something fly across your face as you bend down and pause. You snatch up your goggles, then promptly huck them at Poe. 

“What, are you my _handler _or something?”

There’s a bitterness in your voice – one that bites into Poe and leaves him drawing his mouth into a line. 

“Karé, tell him he’s not my handler.”

“You’re not her handler.”

“– And I can _sleep _with whoever I want –”

“And she _can _sleep with whoever she wants –”

“You know what I meant,” Poe butts in, raising his hands and fiddling with your goggles as you begin to pack up your tool box, “It’s just… he’s –”

_ Not him? _

_”_He’s what?” you chirp, hauling the toolbox up onto your cart and wheeling it back to it’s spot by the wall, “Taller than you? Blonde?”

“_Ouch_.”

“You and him?” Poe chirps, wagging his finger; you gesture for your goggles and he lobs them back to you as he speaks, “Would last about ten seconds.”

“So?” you battle back with your back turned, busy with cleaning up your space, “You’re acting like you’d be _jealous_ of those ten seconds.”

Poe goes quiet.

Oh.

_ Oh.  _


	28. Sinking!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for touch as comfort! here's a wreckage!

Some missions don’t go well. 

When you dodge a hit to your main engine, you lose track of the horizon – there’s a TIE on your right flank banking left and right with your every move and you’re _screaming _cursesinto your headset when your bow hits shallow sandbar of the Spiran lake. 

It’s like hitting a cement wall – your hull bows under the impact and you rocket forward, restraints snapping you back and forth like a rag doll as your X-Wing skids across the water, sending sand and waves into the air before it promptly begins to take on water. Slowly, your ship begins to sink into the tepid water of the lake around you.

Time is moving in slow motion. Maybe it’s from the impact of your head on the glass of your cockpit window, maybe it’s from the now broken set of ribs and harness burn, maybe it’s from the sudden realization that your release clamp is locked and you’re _stuck, _while water begins to pool at your ankles and your X-Wing moans as the water tries to drag it down. 

The tide is low, but the water is deep enough a hundred feet out from the beach that you know it’s not good. Not good at all.

Poe’s gut drops when he sees you go down. This is the second time in all the months you’ve flown beside him that’s it’s happened. 

This time? It’s much worse.

Immediately, the rest of the scouting TIEs are taken out and Black Squadron lands in a panic.

It’s Poe who throws himself from the cockpit and breaks into a muscle burning sprint, followed closely by Snap and Jessika. The water gets deeper as citrus colored flight suits bound up and down. Their pace slows as they being wading through knee deep water to near your ship being swallowed up by the soft sand around it. 

You can see them on the horizon. Your hands are shaking, panic gripping your limbs as you try to punch the unlock on your seat’s safety harness – to no avail. The water is up to your hips now, sloshing as the ship begins to tip forward and the weight of the front engine pulls the wreck down. 

You swallow, hands reaching down to try and find the emergency release brake – but the mechanism is warped and bent and crushed from the rolling impact you’d made moments earlier. 

And now you’re crying. 

It’s certainly not helping, because your entire chest is on fire and you can’t breathe and you’re trying to find something sharp to try and saw your harness off with, but you’re panicking and your hands can’t grab anything under the rising water filling the cabin. 

This is so not how you wanted to die.

Not drowning. Not… Not wrecking your ship and _drowning. _

Poe’s the first to reach the wreck.

The water is up to your shoulders inside the cabin. There’s blood running down your brow, your lip is busted and he can see the dark rings of bruising from the impact on your jaw.

“Punchy,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, “The harness, y’ gotta hit the harness.”

“It’s –” you swallow, trying to calm your breathing, “It’s locked up – I can’t –”

“Okay,” he waves, pulling himself up on the lip of the cockpit, “Okay, and the brake?”

“I’m trying –”

There’s a break in your voice that drives him into a further panic. 

Jessika is next to arrive, eyes wild as he clutches the safety hammer from her tool kit – Poe moves, making way as the ship groans again and he watches you wince, breathing stutter as you try to grab onto the dash controls.

“Punch,” calls Jessika, “I gotta break the window.”

You just nod, face warped in pain. The water is up to your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Okay,” you nod, “Okay.”

You duck away, window shattering in a rain of pieces over you and sinking deep into the sinking cabin. The feeling of fresh air, though is reassuring. You raise your chin as high as you can, ignoring the busted visor of your helmet and trying to keep yourself calm – Poe’s there, leaning over the cockpit with Snap’s pocket knife. 

“Y’ gotta stay still, Punchy,” Poe says as he strains, hips thrown over the cockpit as Jessika and Snap hold up his legs – the weight bears down on the ship and it’s a risk of speeding this up, but Poe isn’t really looking to waste much time, “I’m gonna cut the harness.”

You just nod, breathing coming in and out in shaky labors. 

Poe curses the material. It takes five damn passes on one shoulder to get your right arm free, then another six to get your left. You raise a shaking hand to gesture for the knife as the water creeps higher and higher.

Your legs are still in. 

“Gimme it,” you say quickly, “I’m gonna go under, I gotta get –”

“You get it and we’ve got you,” Poe says, hands knotting in your flight suit as Snap does the same, ready to haul you out once your legs are free. They themselves stagger a bit as sand and water weighs down their boots. Poe’s up to his waist in the lake. Snap, too. 

“On the count of three,” Jessika says, “One, two, three.”

You’re under there for fifteen seconds. Maybe longer. Poe doesn’t know. He does know that it’s the longest fifteen seconds of his life – and when you wiggle yourself free and Poe and Snap haul you free of the cockpit? 

When the wreck slips under the waves with one last bubble of air and you float there, breathless and bloodied and chest quaking? 

Poe hauls you right back into his arms and clings. 

And you do, too.


	29. Sleeps!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon requested punchy and poe falling asleep against one another :,)

Things are… slow after the Spira mission incident.

You’re grounded, nursing a bad concussion, three broken ribs, and a few deep gashes on your hands from the impact. Add that to the loss of your prized ship, and a back order on new model X-Wings from the manufacturer, you’re not in the best of moods. 

It’s late when there’s a knock on your door.

Tiredly, you haul yourself up from your bed and rub your face. Your New Republic Navy issues pullover swallows you whole. You reason you probably look like a mess. 

The mean shiner that crawls up the side of your face definitely doesn’t help.

Your door hisses open to reveal Poe. 

He looks soft in the warm light of the hall. His hair is a mess, no doubt from his helmet, and he’s ditched his usual flight-suit for a soft looking tunic and his olive drab Resistance issued pants. His boots, however, remain.

Immediately, his lips quirk.

“You look like you’re having a really great time.”

He notes the low lighting and quiet in your room. You’re on strict orders from medical to avoid any screens, which means your much-loved Mandalorian soap operas are off limits. Even _reading _is something they’re forbidding you from doing. Safe to say, you look like you’re two beats from losing your mind.

“Don’t joke,” you mumble pathetically, gesturing for him to come in, “This sucks, I’m miserable. I’m so bored.”

“How’s your head?” he asks gently, stuffing his hands into his pockets as you clamber back into your bed. He watches as you shrug and tug your pillow close.

“Hurts.”

“And the ribs?”

“I’ll die if I sneeze.”

Poe feels bad for laughing. But, it makes you crack a wry smile and gesture for him to come sit down. 

And when he does, boots still on, you’re quick to cry out:

“Hey, hey, hey!” you wave as you try not to laugh too hard in fear of upsetting your bruised and broken ribs, “The boots! Get the boots off my bed, what? Were you raised in a bog?”

He’s laughing again, albeit a bit harder this time as he bends over and unceremoniously lobs his boots across the room. Poe gestures to his socks, raises his brows and waits. 

“Good?”

You peek over the edge of the bed. Then nod.

“Good.”

Poe groans as he climbs over you tangles of blankets, finally coming to rest next to you against the headboard as the room fills with quiet and you exhale softly. 

A moment passes. He turns to look at you. You blink up at him.

“This _is _boring.”

“Right?”

You both laugh a little, working a wince out of you as you wrap your arms a little tighter around your pillow. You’re just… overall very uncomfortable. Every part of you still hurts from the wreck. And the mood swings accompanying the concussion don’t help.

“Did you just come t’ keep me company?” you ask softly, eyeing him as he leans his head back. 

“Sure did,” he says sweetly, “Can’t have my Lieutenant going stir crazy.”

The reasoning hurts a bit. Just a little bit. You push the feeling away and ignore how much you wish he was checking up on _you, _not his Lieutenant. Maybe it shows on your face because Poe is suddenly reaching out, touching your shoulder gently.

“Hey,” he mutters, “Come on. Chin up. Think of this as a vacation.”

You make a face.

“… At least you get a new ship?”

You groan loudly, pressing your face back into the pillow. Poe gives an apologetic laugh, tugging you close as your teeter and lean against his shoulder. Your cheek fits against the curve of his shoulder as his hand pats your knee. The position, though you’re sure is _purely _platonic on Poe’s end, is comfortable. The most comfortable you’ve been in a day or so.

You exhale, upset that you’re letting yourself _do this. Get close. Be close. _With _him_. It makes your chest ache but… you ignore it in favor of the moment.

“I guess so.”

Poe, after a minute, speaks quietly.

“I’m just glad you’re alright.”

You blink up at him. He’s staring off into space. 

You hum. 

And then you promptly fall asleep on his shoulder.


	30. Dashing!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for a drunk poe and sober punchy.

“Are y’ sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

You smile into your glass, shaking your head slowly as Poe clambers back into the seat at the bar beside you. His cheeks are flushed, lips pulled apart as he leans against the counter, props his cheek up on his fist, and watches you. His other hand absent-mindedly plays with his glass of knockback nectar.

You’re stuck on the look for a second, dragging your gaze away from him as an eye-crinkling grin fleets onto his face. 

“No,” you laugh a little, “I’m here to be sober sally, remember?”

Poe pulls a face. He wishes you weren’t concussed. And, y’know, that your ribs weren’t broken so you wouldn’t have to take those tauntaun sized painkillers the medical team prescribed. You are, officially, the sober one thanks to some pretty shitty circumstance.

“Mhm,” he hums, moving to sit up and drum the bar, “Shame.”

“What?” you snort softly, leaning back and watching the Commander inhale and wrinkle his nose a bit. 

He swipes at the stubble on his jaw, promptly shrugging and off-handedly muttering. “Jus’ wanna buy you a drink is all.”

He’s drunk. _Plastered. _You can see it in his motor-functions – when he goes to grab the straw, he misses. Twice. He’s too busy looking at you like you’re the sun, the moon _and _the stars to do anything about it. 

“Why?” you prod, turning in your stool and mimicking his pose.

He snorts, moving to sit upright and wave you off. “Maybe I wanna, alright?”

“Just so you can say you did?” you grin slyly, “And Gret Franz didn’t?”

Poe’s eyes lull shut, a roguish smirk on his face as he points a finger your way and leans in. “Shut up.”

You laugh loudly, swatting away his hand as he grins. “You’ve been up my ass to buy me a drink since months ago. I’m just tryna figure out what your play is, Commander Dameron.”

“Well, Lieutenant,” he drawls, mocking your use of title, “Why shouldn’t I want to?”

“…Fraternization?” you ask loosely.

Poe’s whole face falls into an unamused look that can only described as:

_ …Really? _

Your brows knot and your mouth falls open and you lean forward on the bar counter as he finally grabs his straw and takes a long sip. 

“Did,” you pause, blinking, “Did _the _Commander Dameron, the poster-boy of the Resistance, just _turn _his _nose up _at Section 3, Article 4.2 of the New Republic Navy’s code?”

“Nobody follows that rule,” he mumbles, face set in an incredulous look, “C’mon, look at Karé and Snap.”

“I cannot believe what I’m hearing.”

“I’m drunk,” he shrugs, “I can’t help it.”

“No, no, no. Snap and Karé are different,” you raise a finger, “Because they’re both the same rank. Section 3, Article 4.2 of the New Republic Navy’s code is _specifically _in reference to high-ranking individuals fraternizing with lower-ranking members. You should know this, as resident _dashing_ Commander –”

“Why?” he shrugs, waving a hand, “Doesn’t matter –”

“Poe, at any given moment,” you breathe, “Like _half _the base is trying to sleep with you.”

“Yeah, well,” he cries defensively, “I’m not interest in them – … did you just call me dashing?”

“Somehow I knew you’d fixate on that –”

He croons out a proud laugh, sitting up a little straighter and wagging his finger in the air. “See, that’s why Gret Franz is never gonna be the one t’ buy you a drink.”

Disbelief – highly amused disbelief – flies across your face. 

“And why’s that, Poe?”

“Because _you _think _I’m _dashing.”

He pokes your shoulder when he says ‘you’, leaning back in his seat smugly at the end of his sentence. And when you’re quiet, laughing into your lemon-flavored carbonated drink, he follows up with an equally prideful:

“An’ I wanna buy you a drink because you’re _beautiful_, alright? So, let your _dashing commander_ buy you a soda, Lieutenant.”

Your heart screams in your chest as he tosses the credits down with a grin.


	31. Bitterly so!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for "Like poe being extra careful with punchy after the wreck?"

You busy yourself with being Black Squadron’s unofficial mechanic while grounded and awaiting clearance from medical – it’s both a blessing and a curse, because Poe has taken it upon himself to hover. Which is nice… but it’s _not._

You’re… confused.

Poe is confusing.

One moment he’s fending off other suitors, the next he’s calling you kid. Another moment he’s calling you beautiful and buying you a drink – albeit soda – and the next, he’s citing your position as his lieutenant as a reason why he does half the things he does. 

You do know one thing, though: you have it bad. 

And Poe fully worrying over you is _not _helping.

He’s hung over; it shows in the darker circles under his eyes and his over all slow-to-start attitude. It makes you laugh, really, to see the Commander willingly decide that lugging your toolbox across the hangar so you could tighten some of the paneling on his ship is worth it. Purely cosmetic work. 

And yet, here he is.

Looming. Behind you. 

“You been to the medbay today, yet?” he asks, eyes trained on your handiwork.

You shake your head, a screw in-between your lips. 

Poe frowns. “You should.”

You drop the screw in place, reach up, and winch the panel in place. You can feel the ache of your ribs still, but make a point of rolling your eyes at Poe.

“Poe,” you sigh, “I’m fine.”

“I know,” he mumbles in a moment of shy confession; he moves to fiddle with the panel on the opposite side of the X-Wing, “I just miss having you in the air.”

“They said a week at best,” you say gently, moving to stand in front of him as you snag another screw from his hand, “And I miss being in the air, too, but I don’t even have a _ship –”_

“I know, I know.”

You hop onto the step-ladder Poe had wheeled out, this panel a bit farther up, and shrug at him from up high. He makes a face. You throw it back at him. Reaching, you secure the wrench around the lug nut and move to tighten the panel. 

The movement, though, isn’t ideal. You hiss a bit as you bounce on your toes. Instantly, Poe’s hands fly upwards, catching your waist and steadying you on the stepladder as your hands fly to press gently against the side in question. 

“And how long on the ribs…?” Poe asks slowly, hands sticking to your waist as you amble down from the ladder, “Did they say?”

“Poe,” you breathe, “You’re worrying –”

“I can’t help it, you’re –”

“Your Lieutenant?” you ask, a bit bitterly as you gesture to his hands, still glue to your waist, “Yeah. You say that a lot.”

He retracts his hands, falls quiet, and exhales from his nose. 

Finally, after a few moments of letting you putter and check the rest of the panels on his T-70 model, he speaks from his spot by the landing prop.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you chirp, a bit of distaste on your features, “You’re just worried about your team mate.”

“That’s… That’s not – I mean, _yes, _but –”

“It’s okay, Poe,” you drone, packing up your wrench, “It’s fine. I get it.”

But, he doesn’t. 

He’s confused.


	32. Finally, a Kiss!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they. finally. kiss.

You avoid him for five days after the bitter exchange in the hangar.

Five whole, terrible days where Poe is left to figure out that he, _officially_, can’t just… _function _without you in his life. He’s a mess. Moody and angry and a little lost.

The five days also are enough time for him to finally work out that he is the world’s biggest, bantha-headed dumb-ass. Snap and L’ulo and Oddy had been kind enough to remind him plenty the night before, when he regaled them with his current dilemma of having _feelings _for his Lt. 

And now, Poe is rooted outside your door at 0128 hours, worried fussing with his hands. 

He knocked a handful of moments ago, throwing his caution to the wind and deciding he needs to do _something _– because war is very much on the horizon and he’s been enough of an idiot for _this long. _He can’t ignore it anymore. It’s… it’s just not possible.

You buzz the door open with a peeved look on your face.

(He ignores the over-sized t-shirt and lack of bottoms; he has to. His heart is – he’s going to lose his _mind _if he doesn’t just… focus.)

“What do you want…?”

“Can… Can we talk?”

Your gut sinks. You wonder if this is it – if he’s finally worked it through and figured out your feelings for him and he’s here to cut it short before you’ve able to let it die. You wonder if tonight is the night Poe Dameron is finally going cut through your heartstrings with an apology and a smile.

You don’t say anything, just let him come into your room. Immediately, you can see the tiredness on his face; you chew the inside of your lip and settle on the edge of your bed. 

“So?”

Poe swallows.

And it just rushes out.

“You’re my favorite person in the world.”

Your brows knot and Poe can see you blink in the light of the dim lamp on your nightstand. You’re about to say something – about to open your mouth and question him, but he keeps going.

“You are… important to me. And I care about you. You’re… You’re my Lieutenant, but you’re also my friend.”

You narrow your eyes, heart stinging.

“I’m… I’m confused,” you laugh sharply, upset pointing your words.

“I… I always _think _like that – those things… I’m realizing now that I have been an idiot and those things… they’re not bad things.”

“Poe,” you breathe, rubbing your nose, “If all of this is just about wanting to stay friends, then just say that, _please_.”

His whole face falls.

“No, no no no,” he rushes out, waving his hands quickly as he steps forward, whining a bit, “That’s the – _damn it_, Punchy, that’s the exact opposite of what I’m trying to say right now.”

Your head snaps up.

“.._. What?”_

He deflates in relief. “Yes!”

“No – I… _What?”_

_“_You’re my friend and I care about you and you’re my Lieutenant, but that doesn’t negate the fact I’ve been thinking about kissing you for _weeks_ and it’s driving me up the _damn wall_ –”

His words trail off, eyes stuck to you on the edge of your bed looking like you’re about to get up and run. Poe, suddenly, realizes that maybe he made a mistake. Maybe this whole thing was a _big _mistake. And… well. Now, he’s freaking out.

“I’m sorry –”

“N-No –”

“You’re… No, I _am _sorry, this is… I shouldn’t have – it’s late.”

“Shut up,” you breathe, standing and shaking your head, “God, Poe, just _shut up.”_

And you kiss him. 

You kiss him like you’ve wanted to for a long time now – your fingers creep into the curls at the base of his neck as your other hand holds his jaw. It’s the kind of kiss that works an immediate reaction out of Poe, who in a desperate attempt to catch his breath, pulls away and speaks:

“Is – I’m just…? Is this _okay…?” _he manages to mumble before you drag him back in, lips pressing contently to yours as you grin, arms slung around his neck as his hands find your waist. He kneads your hips, hands leaving burning trails under your sleepwear. 

His trail a bit higher as he bites at your lip, thumb sweeping against your ribs and earning a muttered whine. 

“_Careful_ –”

“_Sorry _–”

It’s you who pulls away this time, nose touching his, as you try and catch your breath, swallowing slowly. “What about –”

“_Forget _the fraternization article,” he pleads, lips moving to sweep across your cheeks as his hands find your cheeks and he holds your face, “Just for right now, alright? A-And – and when I’m _done _kissing you, we’ll figure it out. But, I have some time I need to make up for.”

Poe smothers your airy laugh with another kiss. And another. 

And another.


	33. Giddy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for the prompt “you are doing that cute thing again...” with punchy and poe!!

Poe, arms crossed and trying his best to focus on the holo-projection before him, swallows down his self-composure before stealing _one more _look your way.

Through the glowing orb projections gently careening around the room, you stand out like a nova-cluster. Bathed in blue, your own attention is turned to the plot of the Unknown Region and Leia’s words about the fueling station the First Order has commandeered. His own attention _should_ be on the same thing – but, instead, he’s busy staring at you and watching you fuss with your bottom lip as you listen.

Jessika leans to whisper something to you mid-debrief, prompting you to nod – in the sea of the Resistance Starfighter Corp pilots gathered, you’re like the sun. Warm and bright and beautiful and Poe watches intently as you lean back in your seat, cross your legs, and chew your lip.

It’s funny to think that last night he was kissing those same lips. 

Poe clears his throat, dropping his hands to his waist as Leia catches his eyes – she moves through the room like early morning fog on the lakes outside. Her controlled, yet pointed, look in his direction prompts the commander to shift on his feet and drop his gaze in a quiet apology.

And still, the debrief rolls on. 

“That being said,” Leia finally concludes, waving one gilded hand towards Poe, “Commander Dameron will run through the mission schematics for each of your fleets. Flight Commanders, pay close attention. You _will_ be responsible for debriefing your own squadrons before scheduled departure tomorrow morning at 0900.”

You can’t help but feel… _giddy. _

Poe steps forward and runs a hand over his jaw and you catch his eyes, then – his words die into a cough as he tears his eyes away from your smile. 

_Focus. _

You’re not – your attention is turned towards him, now, and the way he begins to weave through the pale blue infographic orbiting the room. His fingers gesture to cluster of cosmic cloud and the room spins in a glimmer of galactic mapping. He’s got on hand on his hip as he talks, voice warm and low, and the other gestures quickly to the flight plans highlighted by BB-8′s projection. 

Jessika Pava steals a glance towards you, noting the softness in your face. 

She shoves your knee with her own.

You blink.

Her brows knot, chin jutting in gesture to Poe as if to ask: _what’s the deal? _

You just make a face, as if you don’t understand the question. 

After the debrief breaks, you make yourself scarce. 

Poe finds you in hangar, puttering around _his _X-Wing. You’re running diagnostics it looks like, pacing around the ship with a hefty data-pad in your hand and brows set in concentration. And again, your lip is pulled between your index and your thumb in worry. 

“You’re doing it again –” he calls out, voice echoing a bit in the empty hangar, “That cute thing.”

Your face brightens substantially when he rounds the bow, ducking a bit to move under the belly of the T-70. You swagger a bit, quirking a brow and tucking the data-pad under your arm. 

“What _cute_ _thing?” _

Poe mimics you, pulling his lip and grinning all the while.

You laugh then, shoving him gently and moving around him to go and work on the other side the ship; he follows, lingering behind you as you lean up on your toes to tap your hand to the access panel by the rear engine. 

As you lean, Poe’s hands find your sides – you make a small sound of surprise, breath leaving you suddenly as Poe spins you about. His eyes are darting around the hangar, happily finding it empty, as his nose brushes yours. 

You snort a little, eyes roaming his face in delighted awe at the sudden display of public affection – albeit it in an empty hangar, hidden behind the left flank of his ship from prying eyes. 

“Can I kiss you?”

“You’re asking now?”

He laughs, quiet and low, as he ducks his eyes. His lashes kiss his cheeks.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he mumbles, leaning in to chase you as you lean away – coyly, you snake out of his grip and laugh.

“Well,” you chirp, “Think about me a little more – I’m busy.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, head tilting in challenge as you press your lips tightly together and shrug one shoulder, turning back to your data-pad.

"Fine!” he cries suddenly, raising his hands in the air. “Fine.”

“Fine,” you nod, amusement painting your cheeks.

“Fine!” he says again, weaving under the X-Wing, “I’ll… let you finish up.”

“Mhm,” you nod _again, _noting his visibly ecstatic frustration, “And I’ll come by later.”

His face brightens. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay.”

“Fine?”

“_Fine.”_

He steals another look over his shoulder as he swaggers out of the hangar, grin _huge _– and you can barely focus on the rest of the repairs as you rush to finish up. 


	34. Toll!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> missy-starry-eyes asked: "The toll here is one kiss" for Punchy and Poe need more kisses please and thank you bless you

You knock on his door at a quarter past 0900 – late, but albeit not _outside of reason _since Poe rockets his door open a breath later, looking _quite _content and rather eager at your sudden arrival at his door, despite the hour.

His Navy issued sweats hang low on his waist, stark white t-shirt clinging to his chest, as he heaves out a breathless grin and a little laugh.

“I thought –”

“I wasn’t coming?”

Poe’s smile couldn’t be any brighter. Right now, he outshines every dying star on this side of the universe. As you speak, you move to weasel past him. However, his arm stops you short and you blink at the sudden obstacle blocking you from entering his quarters. 

He clears his throat.

“There’s a toll to enter.”

You blink up at him, face splitting into an awed, disbelieving grin. 

“A toll?”

He nods, curls bouncing as he swallows and scratches his chin. He’s trying to play it cool – but, it’s clear the ace pilot has been thinking about this bit for the last few hours you’d been away running the last of his pre-flight diagnostics. 

“The toll is, uh, just a kiss. One,” he shrugs, waving his hand, “Really nothing if you think about it.”

You laugh loudly then, swatting at his arm. “Stop it.”

“I wish I was kidding but –”

You roll your eyes, leaning back out the doorway to check the hall with two quick glances. Technically, this little romance was something to be kept under wraps. You suspected Poe wouldn’t be able to keep it quiet for long – especially if he was begging for kisses in the door to his quarters.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Mhm,” you wave, gesturing for him to come closer as you try to keep up your unfazed facade, “C’mon, I have a toll to pay.”

Poe’s smile presses against your own, then, prompting a muffled laugh from you as you snake your arms around his neck and steal two more – an added bonus, happily made worth it when he lets you in and closes the door behind you. 


	35. Together again!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oops - back on my poe/punchy b.s. heh, have some reunion angst.

_“Lieutenant!”_

They’re back.

You’re trading small talk with Jessika, gloved hands on the hips of your grease stained jumpsuit, when the familiar voice crosses the open hangar to greet you — the man attached to it is rushing to match Snap’s strides as they both cross the tarmac; there’s a look of _worry _plastered across _both _their faces.

You blink. Your brows knot together. This is… anything _but _the reunion you’d expected after Poe being gone for a weeklong mission in the Unknown Regions. 

Your head follows Snap and Poe as they move towards Command. Wordlessly, he spares you a look that says _I’ll explain later. _It’s apologetic.

Poe touches your arm when he passes. He draws you into his orbit, reminds you he so much of the _sun _to your moon, and speaks gently. Professionally. Without mush or sweetness or all the other ways he is when you’re alone.

… The way you’ve both come to act around the others. 

“After debrief,” he says, “A word, yea?”

Something’s going on.

Anxiety bites at the homes of your heart as you watch Black Leader disappear into the doors of the command center — Jessika crosses her arms tightly and chews her lip.

“I bet this is about Hueli.”

You wince. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, rocking back on her heels, “And we could really use you in the air when we go, Punchy.”

Hueli is… a problem. 

Sheltered by a massive debris field and neighbor to a growing cosmic rift, the atmospheric dissonance is enough hide any traces of First Order activity — no body _wanted _to go near that planet. But, rumors had it that, recently, work had been done to map out hyperlane connecting the sector to the Perlemian trade route.

A route that the First Order was using to transport weaponry developed and manufactured on Hueli. 

Blow after _blow _had been dealt in the last three weeks — and with the continued growth of the First Order… anxieties surrounding their mounting power had rushed up to the surface and making moves on Hueli had been brought back up as a potential way to level the playing field.

The first problem was _getting there._

Poe and Snap had headed out to scout the area. The Unknown Regions were just that: unknown. Getting a lay for the land was important — but it seems like maybe they’d found more than they were bargaining for.

You linger in the hangar. You find yourself puttering over the newly returned Black One — the T-70 X-Wing, as temperamental as it was, had a soft spot in your heart. _Maybe _because of the man piloting it… but also since losing your ship during the crash on Spira, you’d poured a good number of _hours _into the black and gold ship. 

Something to busy yourself. 

You’re checking the wing counterbalance readout’s when your hear someone approaching. 

It’s Poe.

He’s got two plates of chow in his hands; his face is soft when he spies you by his ship — and he blinks around the hangar before nearing. 

Everyone has dispersed for now. Early drills tomorrow.

It’s late. Outside, D’Qar has started to grow sleepy and the peepers have begun to sing. Wind rustles through the tall grass, and Poe juts his head towards the hangar doors.

“Hungry?”

You’re smiling at him when you nod.

You both perch yourselves on a supply crate in the mouth of the hangar; you take the plate from Poe as he settles in, huffing slightly as his shoulders brush yours and he rubs his jaw.

He nudges your knee.

“I missed you, Punchy.”

You catch his face in the moonlight. Soft and kind. The look in his eyes is so heavy and grounded you swear it makes your heart feel like it’s going to crawl out of your mouth. 

Both of your eyes dart to the hangar behind you.

Empty.

It’s the first of these moments in your relationship — him, being gone or… vice versa. Being brought back together after one hundred sixty eight hours. 

It’s awkward. Disjointed. Weird.

Until he kisses you.

It’s Poe’s hands that find your jaw. His noodle dinner forgotten on the crate beside him, he laughs when you make a small sound of shock and juggle your own; you lean up, catching his mouth in a greedy little lovebite as he sighs. His stubble tickles and the kiss lasts a few long, wonderful moments. 

Moments you’d missed more than you’d realized.

When he pulls away, he can’t help but press another to your lips. Then one to your cheek. Then to your temple. 

“Gods,” you rumble, trying to hide the prick of something misty and sentimental threatening to spill over from your eyes, “It’s like you haven’t seen me in a _week —”_

Poe snorts, unashamed of his rekindled affection. “Yeah, well, it was a long time — longer than I’m used to, y’know.”

You waggle your fork his way. “It was quiet here without you.”

“Oh, good,” he chides, “I’m glad my absence brings you inner _peace_.”

“Shut up,” you laugh lightly, nudging him with your arm. Your chin falls to perch along his left shoulder, “You know what I mean.”

Poe forks a pile of noodles into his mouth. He makes a regretful sound. They’re hot. _Really hot. _He blows hot air out of his mouth before chewing and swallowing painfully. He rasps out a croak.

“Sure — I get it, use me for my good looks…”

“Oh, the _humanity,” _you lean back against the crate and blow on your noodles, “You know I like you for more than your good looks.”

He raises a single brow and sucks his teeth at the suggestion. “Oh, yea?”

“Maybe not your _flying _but —”

Poe guffaws at that jab. He’s chuckling when he drops his head and forks his dinner again. He’s quiet for a bit, smiling as he nods and watches you with an enamored sort of look that has you squirming in the best of ways. 

His lashes kiss his cheeks when he blinks. He speaks softly.

“I did miss you. A lot.”

Your smile melts into something less playful. You turn and let your eyes roam his face. 

“I missed you, too, Poe,” you nearly whisper, “I was worried.”

His eyes fall. When he speaks, his voice is anchored into the deep end of anxiety — the words are ones you don’t want to hear… But coming from Poe, the ever optimist, you _know _they’re going to shape how the rest of the next few weeks will go.

“Hueli… is worse than we thought.”

You reach for his hand. And you squeeze.

He squeezes back, and for now, it’s just the two of you under the stars.


	36. Questions!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon said: Stumbling across Pre-Flight Check and Post-Flight Debrief when I was stressed and needed some cope reading like 6ish months ago was the best thing I’ve ever done. It brought me here! I love your writing and I’ve grown so attached to every story and character you’ve made. Checking in on here each day has been burned into my schedule and I can’t imagine stopping. So seeing you go back to the story that introduced to your blog makes me so happy like I’m going soft in this chili’s tonight I SWEAR-
> 
> this is for you, nonny!

“So... You and the Lieutenant...?”

Snap has been one of Poe’s closest friends for as long as he can remember. 

It’s not to say the rest of squadron isn’t _equally _as important to the flight leader — in fact, Poe Dameron would lay his life on the line for _any _of Black Squadron. All of them are his friends; people who he wouldn’t be able to _live _without, but Snap and Poe... 

They got along easy. Natural. Bonded over having rebel parents and being in this fight long before they ever joined the Resistance. It just made sense that they’d be _this close, _chattering over nothing and everything over warm beers in the base’s cantina. 

Poe, swigging his drink, casts Snap a look.

(It’s one he’s been working on. _Hiding _your relationship was just the smart thing to do. If it wasn’t the regs, then it was the rumors and... you both wanted to spare each other from the run-around as much as you could. The only problem is that the sheer _mention _of you is enough to light up his face, and Poe Dameron is a _terrible liar.) _

Immediately, the bearded man to Poe’s left raises his hands. “Listen — I think it’s nice, y’know... I’m happy for you.”

“It’s nothing, Snap,” Poe says, leaning back, “Really.”

Snap narrows his eyes. “Poe.”

“I’m serious!” a high and tight laugh, “Really, it’s, uh — we’re just _friends.” _

_“I know _you and Punchy smoothed over whatever was going on between you but...” Snap raises a brow, “You’ve been staring. All night. You don’t stare at _me _like that. And _I’m _you’re friend, too.”

“What, do you want me to? _Stare at you_, I mean?”

“I’m just sayin’ —”

Poe’s gaze reflexively jumps back to you and your spot across the bar; you’re chattering with the girls, enveloped in some sort fo rowdy conversation that carries laughter up and over the music. Even under the scrutiny of Snap, Poe can’t help the way his features soften at the sight of you — you’re all cozied up between Jessika and Karé, sipping your own drink and watching the game of cards play out on the table in-front of you.

“See.”

Snap shoulders Poe.

“See what?”

Snap rolls his eyes. “I _know_ that look, Poe.”

“_What _look?” he nearly cries, laughing painfully, “She’s great and all, but —”

“But, _what?” _Snap leans on his elbow, jutting his chin your way, “It’s against regulation? Because I _know _it’s not hard feelings. Those went away a _while _ago. Before Spira.”

That shuts Poe up — the uncomfortable silence is enough to let Snap know he’s _right, _and the pilot just shrugs. It’s clearly a point of tension, but whatever is going on behind the scenes has left both his Commander and his Lieutenant in particularly _good moods. _Snap really can’t say he’s complaining.

Or that he _blames _Poe. 

When him and Karé had first gotten together, there was plenty of word following them around. And they were _the same rank. _Snap knows his friend’s hesitation lays within the potential difficulty of violating the New Republic Navy’s fraternization rule... 

“Alright, alright,” Snap eases up, “I don’t wanna wring it outta you. But, if you ever wanna talk about it... y’know — off the books and not _here...”_

Poe’s smile oozes thanks and kindness. 

“I know, Snap.”

“Yeah,” a slap to the arm, “You do.”


	37. Empty hangar!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon requested: basorexia - the overwhelming desire to kiss w/ poe and punchy

It’s nights like these that Poe wishes he could remember forever.

He wonders, in the quieter moments of the old war, if his parents had moments like this — if they lingered outside the base’s cantina after closing with _their _friends. If they hung onto those last moments before breaking for the night, just enjoying a group of people tied together by laughter and easy smiles and bliss from the warm summer air dancing around them. 

He hopes they did. He hopes his father back home remembers them the way Poe wishes he could remember this when he’s old and tired.

(Does Kes remember his wife smiling like starlight? Laughing at nothing and... _happy? _Does Kes remember the way Shara caught his eye, or the way they felt like there was no one else around them? Did the world fall away, and did they have all that _love _to themselves?)

There’s anticipation crackling deep in his chest now, and even though it’s warm, Poe’s bouncing like he’s fighting off a chill.

Black Leader muscles his hands into his jacket pockets and widens his stance, listening happily to L’ulo and Snap trade jabs — the whole squadron hangs on the lighthearted ribbing, grinning and mulling about. All with no _rush _to leave. 

Poe isn’t really paying attention to the conversation — more so _you, _and the way you’re smiling at him like he’s the only person here. Under the stars, you look _beautiful; _bathed in moonlight and every bit the other half of his heart. It feels _stupid _to be so gobsmacked by the sight of you like this all of a sudden... But he can’t help it. 

Maybe it’s rose colored glasses. Maybe it’s the hope that when the war is done and the First Order is snuffed out, nights like this can be a regular. 

You grin. Your eyes narrow a bit at his stance — questioning it amusedly — and Poe’s grin splits wider. You didn’t think it possible, but... The sight of it is like a punch to the chest. It kicks your heart into a giddy swell. He’s handsome.

Very handsome.

Poe shrugs, and you roll your eyes, and the silent conversation between you both is suddenly caught by Karé. 

Karé catches the slow jut of a jaw — Poe’s eyes are alight with something mischievous when he blinks towards the empty hangar where their ships reside. Karé sees you then drop your smile to the ground and toe the dirt. 

Then you wink at him.

A _wink...?_

... Oh.

_Oh_

Oh my _god._

You’re not paying attention to the fact Karé is gripping Snap’s sleeve in _pure shock _because you’re too busy thinking about how much you want to kiss Commander Poe Dameron.

And Poe’s just as lost in the thought as you are.

"Alright,” Karé says slowly playing off her sudden realization that Snap is _right, _he’s _so, so, so right _about you and Poe, “I think it best we call it a night, huh?”

Snap’s hand squeezes hers. He sees it when Karé wrings his wrist — the pilot wets his lips and drops his head. He coughs, then smiles. _He knew it_.

“S’ gettin’ late.”

“Yeah,” Poe pushes from his stance. His gaze finally pulls from you as he sighs, “It is. Early morning tomorrow, too.”

A round of groans fleets around the squadron. 

“In fact... I think I might run a quick diagnostic on my engine —”

“You, uh,” you pipe up, “You want a hand? Just for a bit...”

“Oh,” a high sound, “I mean it’s late... You don’t have to —”

You wave it off with a laugh. “No, really — I’ll be quick.”

Karé hates how bad you two are at this. She’s torn between wanting to smack Snap out of sheer joy and _laugh _at Poe’s attempt to seem nonchalant. 

Poe’s voice is slow. “Sure, Punch. Thanks... That’d be great.”

A shrug. You can hardly look away from him. 

Gods, you’re _beautiful. _Poe straightens himself up a bit and swallows down his lovesick look. He rubs the back of his head as the group begins to disperse... 

“Alright, uh, ‘_night_ everyone.”

“Night, Poe.”

“Night, Punch,” Karé shoots you a wink, “Get some shut eye, yea?”

You nearly choke.

“You got it, Karé.”


End file.
